Perfecting Disinterest
by biggerthanwhales
Summary: AU. Quinn is a soccer player for the NYU Violets. Rachel has recently transferred to NYU's Steindhart College, taking up a degree in Applied Psychology. So far, Quinn's her most challenging subject to date.
1. Of Quotes and Roommates

Chapter 1 - Of Quotes and Roommates

_Received: Aug 17, 2012 7:10 am __  
Believe with all of your heart that you will do what you were made to do. – Orison Swett Marden_

Rachel nibbles on her lower lip, contemplating her first text of the morning. Obviously, it was her dads who sent it, being infinitely subscribed to their day-to-day motivational quotes. She scrolls down to check for other new messages but finds nothing, and then sourly thinking of how that makes her one of those girls who never gets a text from anyone else aside from her parents.

Though really, the worst part is her dads never seem to run out of them. Not for the length of Rachel's lifetime maybe.

To date, she has exactly 394 "Motivational Quote of the Day" archived in her phone's external memory. They can literally put together a book and call it 'The Berry Way to Be Okay' (Rachel mentioned it during one of their visits, they shrugged it off with a laugh but the glint in their eyes suggested they were considering the idea).

The brunette releases a groan, setting her phone (as well as her irritation) aside. She loves her fathers. She loves them for trying to be there for her everyday. More often than not, she appreciates the dreamy statements and the Carpe Diem-like feeling they give her. Her reaction to words works naturally like caffeine in that they rile her up immediately with just the right dosage.

But not today. They simply don't fit when she's two boxes away from packing up more than a year of her life at Julliard.

Her phone unceremoniously vibrates again.

_Baby girl, are you absolutely sure?_

God, sometimes she feels the need to check the living room to see if they're actually there. Knowing a call might come next, Rachel fires off a quick reply.

**Yes.**

Not even five seconds passed by when her phone buzzes for the third time. Rachel promptly disables the vibrate mode before proceeding to read her inbox.

_Do you swear to Barbra you're sure? _

Rachel scowls.

**How many times have I pleaded for you guys to never, ever bring Barbra again into a serious discussion? **

_We're hoping the thought of her might persuade you to do the right thing, sweetheart._

**I am doing the right thing. Please respect my decision because I don't think anything can change my mind.**

She feels awful as soon as she hits the send button. It's impossible to tell if there's any chance she's hurt them already. She knows it's only in her dads' best interest to look after her decisions, particularly the ones that might permanently affect her life. But she can't also help but feel hurt when they don't trust her with these decisions.

_Okay, baby. We love you. Always remember that…_

It's enough to alleviate her mood in an instant. **Love you too, dads...**

She does, and all of a sudden, she misses them. She misses home. Funny how it tells her what Lima really is to Rachel Berry. But that place still holds enough painful memories for her to get over her nostalgia in less than a second.

Rachel switches on the stereo, turning up the volume shamelessly. And with the help of Matt and Kim, pushes all her worries behind.

_Cause in the daylight, anywhere feels like home._

**_xxxxx_**

"You psychotic freak, I'm going to miss you." Rachel mutters tearfully as Shelley, her roommate, hoists one of Rachel's hand-carries over her bony shoulder.

Rachel wasn't going to do this— deal with a goodbye and a doubtful promise to keep in touch. Give it a few months, and Shelley's going to be just someone she went to Julliard with. Then eventually, she'll tell the new Shelley how once she thought she's going to lose her thick brown locks during a hair-coloring session, which the old Shelley stupidly abandoned when a documentary on Isadora Duncan came up on Netflix. She'll tell her the nightmares she came down with in explicit detail, but that she forgave original Shelley right after discovering Duncan's the Barbra Streisand of dancers.

And then this new Shelley will be gone too, to be replaced by Shelley 3.0 until Rachel has enough versions of Shelley that she will have all of them mixed up in her head. And that means all Shelleys will be exactly the same since she won't be able to tell them apart anymore. Rachel imagines being in her deathbed, and thinking about a faceless friend who represents the average of all of her friends she's had before.

"Psychotic only by _your _standards. Wait until you get to NYU. You'll come running back, trust me," Shelley retorts. "And I can't believe you're leaving Julliard for real. Up to this moment I've been waiting for you to unpack your gold-star panties and nurse your pride instead with a pint vegan ice cream."

"I can still do the latter if you join me while we wait for the movers to arrive" Rachel suggests, wiping at a tear that has rolled down her flushed cheek. Every fiber of her being _loathes _crying, mainly because of the time someone informed her how her lower lip juts out excessively, making her look like a—

God, that's just going to make her nose snot badly even more.

"Of course, I will. Come here you crybaby." Shelley bawls at last, pulling the tiny brunette into her arms. Rachel's so small that her hands can easily touch the opposite ends of her shoulders.

They drop Rachel's things right by the door before grabbing Rachel's favorite fudge brownie and salted caramel pecan ice cream at the nearest vegan parlor.

"You're going to get back with Carlos as soon as you get rid of me, aren't you?" Rachel says, narrowing her eyes at her friend's laid back reaction.

"Hmmm..."

"Shelley!"

"What, I have a thing for mustaches. And his is the sexiest one I've ever seen in real life."

"Real life?"

Shelley shrugs. "Super Mario. No one can win against him, mustache-wise."

Rachel dramatically rolls her eyes in response, making Shelley chuckle in return.

"Really though, you can do so much better."

"You're one to talk. If anything, I bet you're still hung up on that dive boy version of you."

"Jesse?"

"See right there? You still have that look."

"What look? I don't have a look."

"The one that screams 'I'm still in love with him but I'm totally in denial'." Shelley says coolly.

"How dare you." Rachel pouts.

Shelley laughs. "Okay now, let's be serious. Why are you doing this again?"

"You know why." Rachel responds, taking a spoonful of the heavenly treat. The instant it hits her tongue, her eyes crosses behind her eyelids. This—this is what real orgasm is like, Rachel considers for a moment. Not that she'd know because—well, it's not like she had a real one before. Not with another human being. She has no idea whether she should be mortified or proud of it.

"I'm so glad we did this." The brunette adds, licking her lips to savor the traces of sweet left on them.

Shelley hums in approval, digging her spoon back in.

"I know Jesse St. James' an ass for degrading you in front of potential agents. And the fact that he's your boyfriend("Ex-boyfriend," Rachel corrects automatically) fucks you over but you can't give up like this."

Jesse. To be honest, she hasn't really thought about him a while.

At Rachel's lack of response, Shelley continues, "I just don't understand, Broadway is your dream, and Julliard is your express ticket to it. And you're throwing it all away to study Psychology at NYU."

"It's not even about him, Shells. I'm just beginning to realize that the Julliard way isn't the only way. Come to think of it, not everyone who graduates from it is successful in their endeavors. Some icons didn't even have proper training. All they were armed with is natural born talent." Rachel replies, eyes solemn and filled with determination. There's fact in what she's saying, but statistically speaking…

"May I be frank?"

"Aren't you always?" Rachel teases fondly.

Weighing her words carefully, Shelley replies, "Fine. What makes you think you'll do any better than those people?"

"That's easy." Rachel says confidently. "Because I'm Rachel Berry, and I'm born to be a star."

Shelley gives her a look, and it doesn't take a second glance for Rachel to see it—the cynical expression on somebody's face, every time she speaks of her future success with utmost certainty. To others, it comes across as self-gratification or sometimes even insanity—but it's just the way it is.

Rachel's made to perform. This time though, she'll slow down and take her time.

"Tell that to your new roommate and you'll be butchered in no time."

"I don't think I'll meet someone crazier than you are."

Shelley scoffs. "Doubt it. Bet you a hundred bucks you'll find one on your first day."

Rachel grins. This should be easy. "Sealed."

"For the love of god, don't print something and have it notarized. Jeez, I always forget the paper work that comes with these wagers."

Rachel laughs, because yeah, she's totally going to have their agreement on paper.

The ice cream can's almost empty. Glancing at her wristwatch, Rachel believes the moving van's probably already parked in front of their dorm, waiting to move out Rachel's belongings for good.

The change is exhilarating. But eyeing her bottle-blonde friend now is flagging her excitement. This is goodbye, isn't it?

"Shells, can I ask one last favor from you?"

"Sure, Rachel "born to be a star" Berry."

Rachel's mind bickers, but her heart says it's futile not to try. Right now, there isn't another Shelley in Rachel's life, and she will need this Shelley—the one and only.

So the question wrings out of her mouth timidly. "Promise me we'll get drinks and maybe vegan ice cream at least once a month?"

Shelley's face brightens up, like she's been thinking about the same thing all this time. "Sealed. And make that at least twice a month."

Rachel smiles with contentment. That makes two documents for notarization in one afternoon. She makes a mental note to put this in her planner in case she forgets.

**_xxxxx_**

The first thing she notices about New York university is its vastness.

Scale-wise, it's the largest school Rachel's ever been, and her jaw's starting to hurt from gaping all throughout the welcome tour. It may be the thrill of starting anew, but she's finding out that she's going to fall in love with this place the way she did with Julliard. But at this moment, she can already see the countless difference between the two.

Julliard is a building filled with people just like her. NYU is a campus, where everything screams diversity. Rachel clasps her hands together, reveling in its magnificence.

"New students, you may now proceed to your designated dormitories."

Rachel barely hears the call, staying frozen in her place as the group disperses.

**_xxxxx_**

When she applied for a slot in the First Year Residence Halls, Rachel's devastated to find out they were already full. In fact, every residential site provided by the school has already been crammed even before the beginning of the school year.

Except for one.

The doorman greets her with a pleasant smile, which Rachel returns just before her eyes settle on the warm colors that paint the Greenwich Hotel lobby. Rachel instantly falls in love—with its Japanese-inspired ceiling, down to its lush brown Tibetan silk carpet.

She still can't believe she's going to actually _live_ here. Everyday of this is just… surreal. Rachel staggers towards the hotel receptionist not bothering at all to hide her enthusiasm.

"Hello there. I'm Rachel Berry, and I'm from New York University," The name of her new alma mater rolls of her tongue deliciously, and Rachel can't help but feel thrilled at the fact that this is the first time she's telling someone she comes from the Big Apple's most prestigious university. "I have here a copy of my approved lease application."

"Ms. Berry, may I see an ID please?"

Rachel reaches inside her bag and pulls out her driver's license.

"Nice picture." The old woman comments with a smile.

Rachel beams, cheeks reddening. "Thanks."

"Hmm. Let's see... Oh, here it is. Rooming with Ms... S-Santana Lopez." She continues speaking to no one in particular. "You lucky duck. Here's your security code. Room 608."

She wants to ask why, but one rarely questions good luck.

Santana Lopez turns out to be slim, golden-skinned, and beautiful.

"Y-you're Santana Lopez? It's nice to meet you. Hi, I'm Rachel Berry, you're new roommate!"

For two seconds, Santana merely glances at the hand being offered to her, and replying, "Okay, I have one rule. Numero uno y solo – keep your hands off my stuff. Intiende?"

Burned by the rejection, the brunette instantly withdraws her hand.

Suddenly, they hear a sharp cry coming from the hallway. Alarmed, Rachel quickly spins on her heels, reaching for the door when she hears her roommate scream.

"Jesus, Gloria! If you need to wail your guts out, do it in your room!" Santana yells over Rachel's head, before turning her attention back at the quivering brunette. "Anyway, are we clear? Got violent reactions? Because it's better if we settle this with a fist fight as early as now—"

Rachel—shocked and literally petrified— stares at the Latina in bewilderment. Rachel had been wrong—Santana is slim, golden-skinned, beautiful _and_ angry. "Uhm…?" Rachel stammers.

"I said, do you understand? Do you speak English?" Santana repeats, already losing her patience.

Rachel forces herself to focus. "I do! And also, I believe you were speaking in—"

"Good. Another thing, no decorations of any kind that will compromise my inner peace, got it?"

"Yeah, though actually, that's more than one—"

"_Dios mio_, didn't anybody tell you it's disrespectful to keep on interrupting someone? Okay, back to rule number one— no talking while _I'm_ talking."

Rachel nods frantically, feeling the hair on her nape start to prickle.

"No singing in the shower. I have cat ears, which means I have a really sensitive hearing, and to be honest just hearing other people breathe bothers me—"

Oh god, she's going to die here. They'll never find her body. Her dads will be left sending a motivational quote to dead girl everyday. She'll never sing with Barbra, let alone meet her...

"No bringing of stray kittens. And god, don't even get me started on bunnies—"

Thoughts of innocent animals being slew by this woman in front of her, swirls madly inside Rachel's mind.

"And you might want to get out every Friday night, stay up late, join a pagan ritual, and so on. Because well," Santana smirks, eyes a darker shade. "I needs to get my mack on, you know."

No, she doesn't. Rachel doesn't understand any of these rules. She can't tell whether Santana's joking around or terrifyingly serious. Singing is an extension of herself. She _can't_ not sing in the shower or while in the kitchen, that's just impossible. She sings whenever her soul tells her to. Is she being punished for her disobedience? Or did she really just made a mistake?

"Shit, I have to go. Oh, and welcome to NYU, Michelle."

"It's Rachel. Rachel Berry."

"Whatever, Berry."

As the soon as the Latina shuts the door behind her, Rachel exhales a breath of relief. It seems all those years of breathing exercises isn't only helpful during a performance.

She reaches for her phone and calls Shelley.

After a few rings, Rachel successfully reaches her answering machine.

Right, dance rehearsals at eight.

Rachel curls up on her tiny bed, already missing Shelley. And deep down, maybe her old life too.


	2. To Persevere and to Excel!

Chapter 2 - To Persevere and to Excel!

She impatiently drums her fingers against the marble breakfast bar.

This isn't how things are supposed to go. By now, Santana should be awake, taking a tentative bite of Rachel's homemade version of heaven—oatmeal raisin cookies. She should be chewing on the delicious pastry, moaning with half-lidded eyes because Rachel is just that good. And then the Latina will be asking for another, and another, until she's stuffed with sugary delight, she'll forget ever being a bitch in real life. She'll give Rachel a hug, apologize for her earlier actions, and offer to help her in any way she can, like unpacking a few boxes she left in the living room.

But reality is, the cookies are sitting to cool on the dining table, and Rachel's torn between flinging them across the room and waiting a few more minutes.

She wants things to get better— more specifically, to get her roommate to like her—and she's figured that if this is to happen, then she needs to take matters into her own hands. Even if it means internally crying every time she has to crack open an aborted baby chicken. But sometimes you have to make little sacrifices in order to be rewarded. Or so they say.

And the reward comes in the form of delicious looking cookies the size of a regular dish. Rachel purposely made it big enough, that no one in this world would ever say no when offered with this treat. Not even the sleeping dragon inside that harmless-looking room across her.

But what if Santana prefers cupcakes?

Rachel briefly glances at the clock, and decides— taking a long, deep breath— it's now, or never. She'll reserve the cupcake plan for another day if this doesn't work.

Gathering what's left of her courage, Rachel takes several shaky steps towards Santana's room, trying to make as little noise as possible. Thankfully, Santana's too heedless to bother with locks, making it easy for the anxious brunette to merely twist the knob as mutely she can, and slide inside.

She resists a yelp the minute she makes it inside, almost losing her footing and nearly dropping the plate cookies as well as her efforts to waste.

Jesus, it's like walking into a disaster area. Rachel pinches her arms to make sure she isn't dreaming, because she's absolutely certain there's a G-string carelessly strung up by the window. The floor's covered with a variety of things—art supplies, textbooks, paintbrushes, worn clothes... She has to tiptoe her way around, not risking the possibility of stepping into a thumbtack. The utter chaos' making her head ache, not to mention, the disgusting smell of stale beer wafting through her nostrils.

Maybe she should pack her things and make a run for her life before it's too late.

Rachel makes her way slowly around the bed, and then sits at the edge of the mattress, making an effort not to dip in too much on the futon. Santana's sleeping on her stomach, and watching her in boxer shorts and a small tank top, the brunette mentally curses herself for realizing now how creepy this whole thing is. Less than a week in and she's apparently lost her marbles.

She hopes though, that Santana doesn't carry a rape whistle, because she can't even begin to imagine how she'd explain this to the New York Police Department.

"What the fuck are you doing in my room, Berry?"

Her heart leaps three levels up at hearing Santana's hoarse voice from beneath the comforter.

"Good morning, Santana." Rachel greets, surprised at the cheery tone she's able to muster. "How did you sleep? And uhm... how did you figure it was me?"

"Oh, I don't know. Maybe your candy perfume gave it away," Santana mumbles through her pillow. "Or the obvious fact that we're living together. Pick one."

"Well, I came in here to bring you some cookies. I made them, and I happen to be a really good baker, so—"

"Hush. Just hand me the damn biscuit."

"I-uh... here," Rachel puts the plate down right beside her head. "Would you like a glass of milk, or maybe some coffee? I already brewed—"

"One at a time. Geez, eager much? You baked this stuff?"

Rachel nods meekly. Santana blindly reaches for a piece, lifts her head just enough to free her mouth, and then eats the whole thing. Rachel's jaw drops, trying to decide what she wants more—the Latina's approval, or the chance of her choking on a huge ass cookie.

A few seconds after, Santana whines, "I hate oatmeal... more than I fucking hate raisins. Don't slam the door on your way out."

The remark earns her a glare from the brunette, which she ignores with a shrug before disappearing again beneath a cloud-white pillow (the only thing in here that looks considerably sanitary, in Rachel's opinion). The brunette frowns, expecting at least a 'thank you' which doesn't even have to be sincere. but more than that, she grieves the failure of her plan, and the fact that those baby chickens died for nothing.

"Hold up, one more thing!" Santana calls out suddenly, right before Rachel reaches the door. "Can you switch on the stereo? And max out the volume, I need to properly recharge in the morning."

After which, she's back to snoring like an animal.

Rachel does as she's told, and the music of Foster the People instantaneously reverberates off the speakers.

Considering her decent taste in music, Rachel might essentially forgive her someday.

_**xxxxx**_

At night, things are much more bearable.

Santana's out to some college frat boy's party, doing god-knows-what, and hooking up with someone Rachel hopes she won't meet in the middle of the night when she has to use the bathroom.

Things are better when she's alone, with nothing but a mug of hot chocolate in her hand and a novel to keep her company.

This week's story is about two people—*Alice and Mattia—caught up in a messy tale of friendship and love. And above all— being apart. Alice, crippled from a ski fall when she was a child, and Mattia, a math genius who occasionally cuts himself.

It isn't an altogether happy story, but its elements of yearning and misunderstanding feeds the hopeless-romantic part of her. And since she has a love for metaphors, she wonders in reverence what the author meant, when he wrote how the character Mattia saw himself and Alice as "*twin primes, alone and lost, close but not close enough to really touch each other". Rachel borrows the thought, relating it to her dreams of becoming a Broadway actress. She's made it to New York, got into the prestigious Julliard School of Drama, Dance and Music, and she has come so close…

And now after coming across these words, it troubles Rachel to realize that there's always the tragic likelihood of coming as close to her dream as such two prime numbers.

It' during these moments, when Rachel silently thanks her fathers for the encouragement they faithfully send her everyday.

_**xxxxx**_

Received: Aug 27, 2012 7:30 am

**Motivational Quote of the Day:** The essential thing is not knowledge, but character. – Joseph Le Conte

Shelley returns her calls one morning, and it doesn't take a few seconds for Rachel to finally erupt like a volcano. For the sake of civility, she has avoided any form of dispute with Santana, hoping to find a way to settle their difference in a much less… violent manner. But it looks like she's going to have to fight fire with fire soon.

"Damn Rach, slow down."

Rachel grips the phone tightly to her ear.

"I swear, she's a spawn of Satan. No wonder she's named Santana. I mean, she talks evil even in her sleep! Plus, she's rude, and selfish, and inconsiderate—"

"Yeah, I keep hearing." Shelley's calm voice echoes through the receiver.

"That's all you have to say?" Rachel shrieks.

"Well, what do you want me to say? I'm just the ref here, Rach."

"That I'm right, and she's a fucking bitch?"

"Wow… I rarely hear you swear. It must be really bad, huh? Look, I'm sorry, but I don't want to judge the girl. Give her another chance. For all we know she's approaching her time of the month or she's got anger management issues—"

"I don't care. She's driving me crazy." Rachel cuts her off.

Shelley's laughter resonates in her ear.

"I can't believe you're laughing at me."

"No, sorry, it's just that... I think it's safe to tell you now that I once complained to one of my friends about you."

Rachel gasps. "You did not."

"Yeah, I kind of did. You were so crazy with your rather peculiar diction, and your obsession with Funny Girl. I even thought you were gay for Streisand until that Jesse St. James proved otherwise."

"But you love me now, right?" Rachel says. "And that's gross. Barbra's like a mother figure to me."

"Deeply and irrevocably." Shelley confirms dully, but it still manages to make Rachel smile.

"Looks like I owe you a hundred. Just remind me when we see each other, okay?"

"Don't sound so defeated, Gold Star." Shelley coos. "Though I'd totally be lying if I say that winning our bet is definitely not the highlight of my day. You know I love being right more than anything."

"And I hate being wrong."

"You do. I can recall a few occasions where you've proven how much." Shelley muses. "So... what are you up to today?"

"Steindhart Orientation at eighty-thirty until five. It's a two-day program hoping to aid us in surviving our first year at NYU." Rachel says, quoting directly from the brochure they gave her together with her acceptance

"Like someone needs that kind of stuff." Shelley says.

"I do, actually." She responds solemnly, her mind wandering back to Santana and the atmosphere of terror she exudes. "I honestly need some guidance here. I'm not particularly good at fitting in. I told you how I was in high school," Rachel sighs at the memory. "Anyway, thank you."

"For what?"

"For not telling me, 'I told you so'."

"Didn't have to." Shelley mutters softly, sounding empathic.

"This is totally insane but, is there any chance you could join me here?"

"No chance at all, sweetheart. Listen, I have to go. But let me just tell you this: things will get better. Forget how I tried to stop you into leaving in the first place. I'm rooting for you, darling. Don't let one person ruin everything for you."

"You're right." Rachel sighs into the receiver. She wishes the call wouldn't have to end, but a part of her self feels relief in saying goodbye because this phone call is just another solid reminder of the good things she'd chosen to let go. "Bye, Shells."

"Later, Gold Star."

She hangs up and plops tiringly on one of the wooden benches, allowing the warmth of the sun to console her. The past several nights she hardly sleeps. Possibly still taking time to adjust in her new flat. It's not yet home, and Rachel doubts she'll use the term anytime soon. She goes over her inbox until she finds her Motivational Quote of the Day, reviewing it before she heads out to a cloudy Manhattan morning. Armed with renewed confidence, Rachel puts on her most charming smile as the doorman bids her farewell.

Rachel has both character and knowledge. She will find a way to humble Santana and take NYU by storm.

_**xxxxx**_

Their proctor arrives half an hour later. She greets the class with a vivid smile, introducing herself as Katrina Forbes, and currently on her second year as a graduate student. The slight wrinkles in her eyes strongly suggest that she's quite possibly in her mid-thirties. But whenever she smiles, the years magnificently fall away.

"Welcome to the official NYU orientation class, let's start with a short ice-breaker." The class noticeably perks up. "Anyone who's familiar with Kokology?"

Several students—including Rachel—raise their hand.

"Good, good. But for those who are hearing the term just now, Kokology refers to the study of kokoro, a Japanese word for mind or spirit. Please open your manuals to page eleven."

Forbes reads the directions aloud. And when she's done, she gives them five minutes to finish the entire survey.

Rachel proceeds turning the pages until she reaches a section that contains a set of seemingly random questions. She tries to contain the tiny ripple of delight as she scans the page, having always been fascinated with games of self-discovery. Being naturally attracted to human behavior, psychology came in second to her choice of career. But she doesn't think she'll ever give up performing. Besides, having a background on the subject can potentially help progress her talent as a Broadway actress.

For the next several minutes, she answers the questionnaire truthfully, circling the first letter she feels is her most appropriate response to the given circumstances. The key to Kokology is to let your mind drift off and go with instinct. It won't work when the person starts overthinking a scenario. What comes isn't a natural reaction but rather, a calculated action. And that rarely happens in real life. Rarely does a person think for several minutes before reacting to an incident.

Rachel taps the rear end of her pen softly against her cheek, finally arriving at the last question:

You are standing in front of a painting at an art museum, hands clasped behind your back as you try to take it in, when a total stranger comes up alongside you and says something to you. Which of the following does the stranger say?

(a) You know, I happen to be a painter myself

(b) Excuse me, do you have the time?

(c) Isn't that a beautiful picture?

(d) What do you think of this painting?

She easily rips a scenario from it, playing a tiny clip in her mind where a sophisticated-looking lady admiring a work of art, is approached by a dashing man— an artist himself— and they instantly jump into an innate conversation about art and life. And then the scene morphs into the man, asking the lady for a cup of coffee. He takes her home, paints her a portrait, and by the end of the day—they find true love.

Long ago, she would've imagined that man to be Jesse. And it sucks when reality tarnishes imagination.

"Time's up! Anyone who would like to share? First, introduce yourself, your course, and then uhm… let's go with your favorite hobby. After which, pick a question of your choice, you tell me your answer and I'll reveal what it says about—"

Rachel's hand quickly shoots up in the air.

"Alright, I love your eagerness! Let's hear it." She says, flashing her pearly whites at Rachel.

"My name is Rachel Barbra Berry," Rachel starts, swallowing nervously as every head turns her way. "And yes my middle name is after the great Barbra Streisand. I just transferred here from Julliard and I'm taking up Applied Psychology. Since I just mentioned Julliard, then I think it's obvious that my favorite hobby is singing. Well, actually it's not just a hobby. It's my life."

Rachel pauses, getting a old of herself before her little speech turns into a detailed autobiography.

"I choose question number ten. You are standing in front of a painting…" She begins to read the entire text, and afterwards, Rachel readily gives her answer.

Forbes clears her throat. "Thank you. Now this question aims to see how you'd react in chance encounters. Like for example, meeting someone for the first time. And you answered letter A…" She repeats Rachel's answer swiftly before moving on with its interpretation, "…this means you're fond of communication in general. You immediately trust someone with information about yourself— in a desire to impress them— so you don't have a hard time giving them."

Rachel nods in agreement. She briefly wonders how it's ironic that a study can easily say more about someone, rather than the people close to them.

"Can I have another volunteer?" Forbes calls out.

For a time no one moves or breathe. Every pair of eyes (except Rachel's) steering clear of Forbes' searching gaze.

"How about you?" She points at a student about four seats to Rachel's right. Brown eyes follow the direction of Forbes' hand, until it lands on a blonde with leaden hazel eyes, choppy hair framing the most perfect cheekbones Rachel's ever seen. She wears a grey boat-neck sweater and a sluggish look to pair it with.

There's about five seconds of dead air—of which Rachel can't grasp in any way because the task is simple. They're being asked to share a basic, honest-to-god answer that's either right or wrong and this girl appears utterly lost—

"I'm Quinn. Linguistics. Hobby, I… don't have one."

Her husky voice is consistently neutral— nearly monotone-ish. Rachel doesn't have to look at her in order to detect the apathy trickling with every syllable being spoken. The girl's barely making an effort to open her mouth that the words sound garbled to Rachel's ears.

Rachel wonders if maybe she came in intoxicated, but considering the time it's highly improbable. Still, Rachel is thoroughly turned off, shaking her head curtly at this outrageous form of disrespect.

"Alright, Quinn. Your question?" Forbes follows up when Quinn went silent again.

"Ten." Quinn swivels her chair.

"Oh, chance encounters again. And you answered…?"

Quinn swiftly runs her tongue over her front teeth. "B."

Forbes starts reading option B for everyone's convenience, and then gives the personality it embodies, "B. It means you have your own world, and that merits both a positive and a negative reaction from other people. You're not very attached to majority of society's norms, but instead, you live life at your own pace and maintain an individuality that most people wouldn't understand or relate to."

"Thank you for sharing, Quinn." Forbes adds, and Quinn's face maintains its same passive expression, looking far from apologetic.

"Okay now we move on to our main objective, which is to familiarize you with the university's standards and culture. But first, every student should be aware of what NYU strives to have each its students learn by heart. Which is…?" Forbes trails off.

"To persevere and to excel," Rachel recites with certitude. She doesn't even care if she's coming off as overly enthusiastic. Or if they think she talks an awful lot. She came prepared, and she's not going to hold back for the sake of being liked by people she doesn't even know. Success is a contest, and Rachel's a willing participant.

"That's right." Forbes says, and begins to discuss what students can expect from NYU, while Rachel lets her attention deviates once more towards the idle blonde, watching wide-set eyes stay glued to the shiny desk. Certainly, Rachel did not expect NYU would accept a student like this Quinn girl.

_**xxxxx**_

"Excuse me, but are you absolutely positive we're allowed in here?" Rachel waves at the glowing sign which hangs above their heads that said 'Carnival'. She stands on her toes, taking a glimpse of the pub. Her nose scrunches at the sight of an old man, squeezing a hundred dollar bill inside the breast pocket of a girl who doesn't even look old enough to volunteer at UNICEF.

There's no argument that this place's doing a good job living up to its name.

Forbes had rounded them up for drinks as soon as their last session for the day ended. Rachel had dared to protest, but everyone were already nodding their heads and passing out bars and nightclubs they know of.

"What are you? Fifteen?" Someone jeers in her face. Rachel steps back at disgusting smell of root beer and ham.

"If I look like it, then I take that as a compliment. Otherwise, that's a very immature thing to say, considering not everybody enjoys a lap dance or having their throats burned from—" Rachel's cut off by Forbes' body wedging between her and the bouncer.

"Don't try to upset the big guy until I can get all of you in, okay?" Forbes whispers or rather hisses at Rachel. Then with the little space she has, Forbes spins around and tells the bouncer, "Katrina Forbes. They're all with me."

He checks his clipboard, decidedly pausing to look at their faces behind his sunglasses, before eventually clearing the entrance. "Don't trip." He mumbles through a chuckle as Rachel brushes past his shoulder.

The brunette rolls her eyes, feeling more and more isolated as they walk further inside the club. It's all dizzy lights and the heavy scent of alcohol and perfume. Rachel supposes they might as well be in Santana Lopez's lair (this causes her to grip a metal pole, fearing that she might actually trip at the thought of Santana being here).

As they push through the crowd, Rachel wraps her arms around herself, occasionally cringing at the loud synthetic music blasting through the giant speakers. Before, Shelley used to drag her around Brooklyn, taking her to pubs packed with bikers and mostly, dangerous men who seem to enjoy preying on the likes of her and so she vowed she'll never again visit this kind of place, but—

But she couldn't really pass up an invitation like this, could she? Because it turns out that transferring to NYU is nothing like a breath of fresh air, nor a trip to fucking Disney land. In all honesty, she feels like an aquarium fish, suddenly thrown into the sea, swimming in vast, darker places for the first time, and with no crystal walls to protect her. And the worst part of it is there's no going back. So when a guy with a Mohawk from their group suggests they play a drinking game, Rachel all but smiles nervously.

Accept the challenge, sweetheart, her dads would always say. And so Rachel constantly lives up to the challenge, even though she hates it. And she's not sure what 'it' connotes exactly— it can be the itchy couch they're sitting on, the drink around her fingers she didn't ask for, or the vertigo slowly creeping into her head. Or perhaps all of it combined.

"It's like 'Never have I ever' but in reverse," He explains carefully, looking thoroughly pleased. "One of you is going to think of a nasty thing which you've either done, or has been done to you, and if someone hasn't done that before, then bottoms-up grandma." He raises his shot, and swigs it.

"I think I know what you're trying to do here Puckerman." Forbes comments, looks at him knowingly.

"Got a problem with that, Ms. Forbes?" Puck challenges with a playful wink.

Their proctor shakes her head, smirking with equal haughtiness. Rachel frowns, attempting to read into their interaction because it seems nothing good will occur in the coming hours. And it's only eight-thirty. God knows how long this kind of activities last.

Puck uncaps a bottle of Jack Daniels, says, "I'll go first."

Rachel positions her shot glass right in front of her. The sigh of it is already making her sick.

"Lit a cigarette in a non-smoking area."

Rachel downs her shot glass, wincing at the scorching in her throat.

"Bartop dancing."

And another one.

Puck wiggles his eyebrows ridiculously, and says, "Sex."

And—embarrassingly— another.

"Pee contest in a public restroom." ("Hey that's not fair!", some girl yells. But Puck's streak continues.)

And another shot. Her vision gradually starts to spin counter-clockwise.

"Kissed a girl."

Rachel downs her umpteenth shot. Actually, she's the only one who had to drink.

Puck pulls out an Absolut out of nowhere. They go for another round, exchanging creative experiences which Rachel can't even bring herself to imagine. Dear god, she never considered the possibility of death by a drinking game, being her ultimate fate.

"Holdup, smartass. We get it, you're a bad boy," Forbes interjects after some time. Half of the group are already drooling on the collars of their expensive shirts. "But I'm assuming the game rules are flexible, so let others take their turn. I'll go next, then Rachel, then Georgia and so on…"

"Have been cheated on twice," Forbes says it so casually, but Rachel feels the graveness of these words. All of a sudden, she's overwhelmed with an impulse to comfort her thirty-something friend—or teacher, it's too much confusing at the moment—and tell her she'll be okay. Or it could only be the alcohol starting to seep into the emotional side of her brain. Thankfully, she manages to controls herself. Nevertheless, Rachel feels bad for the woman and chooses to break the rule and preserve the little of what's left in her cup.

Forbes raises an eyebrow at her. "It's your turn Rachel."

Rachel's entire body goes rigid. "I- I haven't done anything remotely naughty, so…"

"Just think of anything." Forbes urges on.

Anything? Amidst the pounding in her head, Rachel can still make out a few 'anything's that most people would find boring, so she goes with the one experience she's actually proud of.

Rachel narrows her eyes deviously, and says, "Three-time nationals champion in a choir singing competition?"

They all stare at her dumbly, before eventually bring the burning liquid to their lips. Rachel smiles and takes her shot anyway, because at last, she won at something.

_**xxxxx**_

It's not exactly clear how she even got out of club without falling all over herself.

Her limbs feel heavy with something akin to lead, causing her movements to be stiff and slow. But when she makes it outside, she's more than delighted to receive the cold rush of wind against her face. Rachel breathes in the air like a drug, savoring the smoke-free atmosphere of the night.

Her mind unclutters, if only for a little bit, but enough to notice a far out figure slumping against a lamp post. Or maybe it's just her vision playing tricks on her again, because all the colors in her spectacle are beginning to bleed into each other, creating a lovely pattern of sorts until they morph into images of places and people she doesn't recognize.

Rachel shuts her eyes tightly, trying to shake off these hallucinations.

And when she opens her eyes again, she sees not a figure, but a girl, wearing a familiar grey boat-neck sweater …

…_Quinn?_

* * *

Footnotes:

_*Alice and Mattia – These are characters from Paolo Giordano's "The Solitude of Prime Numbers". And yes, in this story, Rachel's currently reading this book. Also, I highly recommend you read this novel._

_"*twin primes, alone and lost, close but not close enough to really touch each other".—direct quotation from the book. Twin prime, in mathematics, is a prime number that differs from another prime number by two (ex. 3, 5). A prime number never follows after another prime. Hence, they can only be as close as they can be, but never will they be together._

_The book is an important plot element in this fic (yeah, I thought about this story a lot), so for now, just bear with it._


	3. Serendipity

**AN:** So here's a chapter dedicated to Rachel and Quinn interaction. As always, thank you to those who continually take the time to read this story. Reviews, faves and alerts are just bonuses, but they are more than welcome too :)

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Chapter 3 – Serendipity

First, Rachel wonders how long Quinn's been standing there alone in the cold. If she had known the blonde's intention to sneak out, she would've joined her. Except that she's not entirely adept with escapism either. In fact, she often gets caught in the middle of everything. Point in case, she ended up here— barely able to walk without staggering—and Quinn's here too, sober and looking perfectly unaffected.

Second, she thinks, 'Oh my god, she's beautiful.', because it's the first time she's seeing Quinn's profile, and it's immaculate—so much that it leaves no room for jealousy in Rachel's heart. Or maybe she's just _that_ drunk, because when you have one drink too many, everything feels _awful_.

"Hello." She drawls, dragging out the 'o' until all the air leaves her lungs. She sounds so fucking outlandish even to herself, but she's utterly helpless when her jaw feels ten tons heavy.

Quinn whips her head around and Rachel doesn't miss the way her short blonde hair bounces through the sudden movement.

_She's tall_, Rachel observes, eyes briefly scanning the blonde's entirety—from toned arms subtly visible through cotton sleeves, down to shapely legs covered in faded denim jeans. _And a bit athletic too…_

"Hello." Quinn responds slowly, drawing out the last syllable exactly the same way Rachel had.

Rachel's brows crease in confusion as Quinn's mouth twist in a measured smile. She can't tell if she's misreading Quinn's actions, or if she's legitimately being mocked by this girl.

"You were supposed to be there," Rachel clumsily tilts her head in the pub's direction. "Not here." The blonde's been missing the whole time and it surprises her that no one took notice at all.

Quinn regards her with a blank expression, so that Rachel can't tell whether she's thinking of an answer or already spacing out in the open.

"But you aren't there either." Quinn answers languidly, tilting her head towards the same direction and mimicking Rachel's previous action.

"Well, I haven't been here for all night, getting drunk on a Snapple." Rachel snaps, gesturing wildly at the empty bottle in Quinn's hand.

Quinn's retaliates with a look that sends a chill down Rachel's spine. Jesus, that look she keeps sending her. It's impenetrable and a little frightening—as if she's aiming to trap Rachel with just her line of vision.

The brunette bites her lower lip anxiously, starting to feel overwhelmed by the growing silence. She can't think of anything more to say, and it seems neither does Quinn. But even in her intoxicated state, Rachel can't stand not talking to someone she just met. She always feels the need to entertain, to keep things interesting, to reel people in and give the best impression. Damn, it's hard being Rachel fucking Berry sometimes.

She constantly needs. And she's always conflicted when she doesn't _deliver_.

Except, things are ten times worse when the person refuses to talk but shamelessly keeps staring at her like she' reading into Rachel's life, starting from the very beginning.

Just, what is this Quinn person thinking of right now?

"It's rude to stare, you know." Rachel mutters, leaning against the perishing wall behind her.

"Says who?" Quinn asks coyly, mimicking Rachel's movements as she too, leans back.

"Are you seriously asking me that, or you're just playing with me?"

Quinn nods slowly.

"Come on, which is it?"

Again, the blonde merely bobs her head up and down. Up and down, resembling those bobblehead dolls displayed on most public vehicles. It's freaking annoying her more than normal.

"Why are you being so mean to me?" Rachel whimpers in a little child's voice.

Then Quinn smiles, all teeth and pink gums and radiance, and says, "Do you want to sit down somewhere?"

Rachel shakes her head harshly. "I don't think I want to go back in there. I'll round another lose of their stupid game and I'll be the drunkest in New York City. My fathers would just love that, wouldn't they?"

Quinn wheezes in short beats, and it takes a while for Rachel to realize she's laughing.

Rachel's ears turn a crimson shade. _Laughing_ _at what? … Having two gay dads?_

"'Lose another round' you mean? Are you okay? " Quinn says between chuckles, before Rachel can interrupt her with a dirty look.

Brown eyes soften in an instant, appreciating her mistake for once.

"So you weren't being distasteful of the fact that I have two gay fathers?" says Rachel, suddenly more lucid.

Hazel eyes dart from brown, finding a sudden interest towards the starless night sky. For a while she contemplates the infinite cosmic mantle, and then poses a question of her own.

"Why would that sort of thing warrant an insult?"

Rachel's teeth dig into her lower lip hard, but not hard enough to draw blood.

"I've been asking that myself for years now actually."

Rachel falls silent, waiting for something; maybe for Quinn's two cents, or for some kind words of comfort. But Quinn just lingers, seemingly caught up in her own thoughts.

A growling noise comes out of nowhere, and the topic drops in a beat. Rachel dips her head, hand coming down to rest on her tummy. And there it is, another growl—more prominent than the last one—loudly confirming Rachel's suspicions. It's not a pleasant sound to give off to someone you've just met that morning, but she's too damn out of focus to find it in herself to care.

Quinn's face morphs into a funny expression, keeping her lips tightly pressed together in an effort to contain her amusement. She watches Rachel arduously try to remember the last time she's eaten.

"They didn't have vegan mac and cheese. Or anything vegan…" Rachel mumbles unhappily, frowning at the look Quinn is giving her.

"Do you want to grab something to eat?" the blonde offers kindly.

Rachel ducks her head and shrugs her shoulders.

"'kay."

They both stay completely still— Rachel clutching her empty stomach and Quinn watching her.

It lasts for several seconds until the brunette exclaims, "Oh, for Pete's sake!" and grabs Quinn by the wrist, ignoring the slight twitch of pale hand when her tanned skin met the blonde's. On her initial step, Rachel almost loses balance, knocking Quinn's at the same time. Quinn at last, takes matters into her own hands, gripping the brunette by the elbow to control both of their movements. They're locked like that all through Rachel's quest to find a diner, eventually stopping at a hotdog stand when the pain in her stomach becomes too unbearable.

_Drinking with an empty stomach— not a good idea_, Rachel notes for future reference.

"Are you sure you want to eat here, Ms. Rachel Berry?"

"I'm obviously not stopping here to merely chat with you, Quinn."

"Yeah. But I think I recall you mentioning your vegan diet."

"And so?"

They buy an ordinary hotdog sandwich with lots of pickles (at Rachel's request), and Quinn takes a bottle of water. Quinn quietly watches Rachel pull out the hotdog from the bun and tosses it into the garbage can. They fall into a momentary lapse, as Rachel merrily nibbles on her pickle sandwich. For most part, Rachel eats in silence except for when she asks Quinn if Snapple's her favorite drink, to which Quinn replies with a quick 'just their pomegranate flavor'. Rachel's a bit disappointed after that, thinking every Snapple flavor tastes just as heavenly.

"You're not particularly fond of talking, are you?" Rachel says right after finishing her meal.

Quinn's forehead creases as if lost for a moment, and then says, "I sometimes talk to people I know." _Sometimes_. Rachel wonders how frequent that is.

"My name is Rachel Barbra Berry. Now you know me."

Quinn smiles and shakes her head.

"And you're Quinn uhm… I forgot."

"Maybe I'll tell you later. But I hardly think that's how it works, Ms. Rachel Barbra Berry."

"Can you stop that?"

Quinn arches an eyebrow— which is already perfectly arched anyway—in a nonverbal question of '_stop_ _what?'_

"Calling me by my full name."

"Okay, Ms. Rachel."

"And fucking omit the 'miss' already! God, can't you address people like a normal person?" She usually doesn't swear, but then again, she also doesn't find a pickle sandwich enjoyable on a normal day.

"Okay, Rachel."

Rachel knows it's an off-handed remark and Quinn should be offended, but she doesn't miss the playful sheen in Quinn's eyes as she crosses her arms in font of her chest.

It's without a doubt that she's meeting the worst people ever. There's Santana who's overly and incessantly in rage. And then this blonde, who—

God, she has no fucking clue who this Quinn is, or what's behind those eyes that stubbornly clings to her. Rachel can't find anything to say about her companion.

But thinking so deeply into this is starting to physically hurt, as her head pounds louder than her chest.

"Maybe I just do things differently than most people..." Quinn mutters softly. Rachel can see the sincerity of that statement in Quinn's eyes. And she probably needs to apologize for yelling, but instead she keeps her mouth and observes Quinn some more.

"Why don't you sit down, Rachel?" Quinn says, pulling her back to the present or taking Rachel's attention away from herself.

Rachel breathes, long and hard like it's her very first.

_On the pavement…? _ "Where?"

Quinn answers by looking at the sidewalk. Well, she doesn't really have a choice. Rachel carefully drops to the ground, Indian style, just a few inches away from the blonde.

It surprisingly feels nice.

"It's your duty, you know, to keep talking to me so I don't fall asleep and have a concussion." Rachel says, giving another go at an actual conversation. Problem is she's too inebriated to think of a good topic. So maybe requiring Quinn to talk could force her to put some effort and give this a try.

"You said you had two gay dads. What's that like?" Quinn asks.

Rachel smiles proudly at the mention of her fathers. "Hiram and Leroy Berry—two people I love more than anything in this world. Two people who love me more than anything in this world, too."

"That's quite an introduction."

"It's true."

"Where are they?"

"Lima, Ohio. That's where I came from, my hometown. Then I got into Julliard and came here right after graduation. One of the hardest things I ever did in my life was walking through that invisible line at the airport, the one that tells me there's no going back—that when I cross over that point, I'll be here, and my fathers on the other side. Hey, can I take sip from that?"

Quinn shrugs and hands Rachel her bottle of water. Rachel closes her eyes as she drinks, and soon, she feels some of the heaviness in her head wear off. When she's done, she hands it back to Quinn, who refuses. "You can keep it."

"What, you've got some unresolved saliva issues?" Rachel teases.

She takes Quinn's silence as a yes.

"Shit, I'm sorry." Rachel says. She scrambles to her feet, with the intent of getting Quinn another bottle of water until Quinn stops her by reaching out and gently tugging the hem of Rachel's shirt. "It's fine, Rachel."

With the loose hold she still has on the brunette's shirt, she pulls Rachel back to her previous position.

And this is where Rachel gets struck with fervent curiosity. This girl, who loves to maintain eye contact but won't speak more than two sentences, who sneaks out of a social affair to drink Snapple by herself, who's asking Rachel about her family like she's genuinely interested to know and not just being polite…

There's a word for it. Fascination. Like when she had her first viewing of Funny Girl, and became so intrigued with musicals and Barbra, she spent more than eighteen years of life wanting to be her obsession.

And it's kind of the same with Quinn, except Quinn's a real person, and Rachel can't crack her open unless Quinn permits it. It's the magic of meeting someone for the first time. They're a brand new learning that pokes at someone's natural excitement of discovery, so that people turn into magnets constantly drawn to each other, on and on.

But then, it's not like she's going to remember this encounter with Quinn in the morning. And yet, it doesn't keep Rachel from hoping she would— because she kind of wants to have Quinn as friend despite her weird habit of openly staring at a person.

Quinn just continues to look at her, and Rachel's beginning to find this rude manner of hers quite pleasing.

"I told you, it's rude to stare." She reprimands Quinn gently with a grin.

Quinn's eyes unexpectedly shifts downwards in response.

"Quinn…?"

Hazel eyes return to Rachel once again. "Hmm?"

"What are you thinking?"

"I don't know," Quinn looks away. "Thoughts?"

"Like what?"

A reply never comes. By now, Rachel's caught on the minimal chance of getting this girl to answer any of her questions. So Rachel begins thinking of some way to find these answers, and discovers one.

"You don't like it when it's about you."

Not a question, but a statement. But Quinn just runs her tongue over her chapped lips, pretending she didn't hear the brunette.

Rachel has gotten the hang of how Quinn communicates to parse this reaction. Kind of like a "fuck off" but in a nicer, subtler way.

Jesus, it's insane that she's learning all these things with about 50% alcohol in her bloodstream.

"You know what, we can be a team. I'm obviously good at talking and you're an excellent listener." Rachel muses.

"Sounds like a useless team to me, unless there's an existing conversation contest in America."

"If there is, will you enter with me?"

Quinn grins. "Maybe…"

"Hey, can you be my sink just for tonight?"

Quinn shrugs. She crosses her legs together and rests a pale cheek on her wrist.

Rachel takes it as signal and starts breaking down her thoughts to pieces, and getting each one of them out in the open.

"It's probably going to be a lengthy monologue, but you are very welcome to interrupt me anytime you want," Rachel says. "But I really need to get this out while I'm half coherent enough to withstand the dirty ground I'm currently seating on."

"You have…" Quinn checks the time on her cell—12:11 am. "…all morning." Though a quick glance at Rachel can tell anyone that with her current state, she won't last any much longer than half an hour.

"I—I honestly don't know what I'm doing anymore. I thought I did, but I should've known I'd arrive to a situation in which I can't seem to go anywhere. It's like deciding to visit your favorite restaurant for dinner—but not knowing which dish to order, or what you're having for drinks. God, I'm not making much sense, am I?"

"I'm assuming that's just a metaphor for a more tangible situation?"

"Yes. But metaphors are important, Quinn."

The corners of Quinn's mouth inch up every so slightly. "If you say so… But that's a metaphor for what?"

"For choosing to transfer to NYU, despite Julliard and singing being my whole life. I have this plan in my head where I'll finish with honors, and within a few months, grab my first role at Broadway. But I should have known that I was planning for disappointment too.

"Because look where I am now," Rachel snorts, lacking the humor that usually accompanies it. "I'm as bad as this pavement and life seating on my face. I run away from _Julliard,_ Quinn_. _What the hell was I thinking?"

"What happened?"

"A humiliation that I've been struggling to put behind me..."

"Julliard's not really that far from here." Quinn mutters.

At that, Rachel bursts into laughter. Was that a joke? Hilarious but totally uncalled for. What exactly is she trying to say here? That if she wants to return to her dreams she can just take a taxi and tell it to drop her off at Lincoln Center Plaza?

"It's a metaphor, Rachel." Quinn says sheepishly.

"For…?" Rachel asks in between giggles. Silly girl, it's not.

"For…" Quinn's forehead creases, and it's obvious how much she's concentrating on this one idea. Rachel decides to take pity on the blonde and restrains herself.

After a long moment, Quinn breaks eye contact. "Never mind."

"No, please, tell me."

"I forgot." Quinn dismisses with a shrug.

She doesn't believe Quinn. Not even a little bit. But she's tired too tired to bicker and lets it go, mentally swearing she'll someday get Quinn to tell her more than evasive answers. In the mean time, she continues her story.

"You know what the worst part of my story is? My boyfriend had something to with it." Rachel pauses for effect and waits to see if it'll earn a surprised reaction from Quinn, but the blonde's face remains docile.

"Or should I say _ex-_boyfriend." Rachel corrects herself a second later. "I don't understand how someone who claims to love you, betray you for their selfish benefit."

"Men can be rather convincing…" Quinn trails off, her eyes unsteady. Her tone of voice isn't comforting or anywhere close to that—yet it sounds as if she's only saying what she knows, and would rather not say more than what she means just to make Rachel feel better. And she appreciates that about Quinn. She releases a drawn-out yawn, stretching her arms to relieve some of the stiffness.

Quinn pulls her legs to her chest, throwing her arms around them in a protective manner. Rachel feels the desire to ask what Quinn knows about men and their conniving ways. She wants to know the backstory behind that statement, just as she wants to know if she can still turn things around in the end. But there's something she hasn't done in a long time.

Singing. Overwhelmed with a sudden longing, Rachel starts humming a few notes from the West Side Story's 'I Feel Pretty', and she wonders too, if Quinn can carry a tune herself.

"Quinn?"

"Yes?"

Rachel rubs her eyes roughly. She's halfway to losing herself to sleep. "Your surname? You said maybe you'll tell me, and I think I'm about to die, so…"

Quinn's laugh rings in her ears—in a very musical way— just before her mind starts to drift off to wonderland.

"Fabray," Quinn whispers at the last minute. But Rachel misses it, already having fallen asleep.


	4. Quinn Who?

**AN:** Hey everyone! Thanks for reading and reviewing the last chapter, I got a lot of positive feedbacks from it and I would just like to say that I have a purpose for writing Quinn this way. It's going to be a major factor in their relationship development. After this chapter, the stage for this story will be almost complete. Please don't forget to review :)

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Chapter 4 – Quinn Who?

_Received: Aug 28, 2012 6:30 am_

***MQOTD:** Life always waits for some crisis to occur before revealing itself at its most brilliant. – Paulo Coelho

_P.S. Give us a call soon, sweetie. We miss you… Love always, dads._

Brown eyes flutter open to the sound of an alarm going off like a tripwire.

Her own bed could be blazing at the very moment, and yet, Rachel wouldn't notice.

Not with a recurring headache coming down on her head with pointy, needle-like claws—and that's a lot worse than being inside a burning building and dying from suffocation. Rachel twists on her side, causing a groan to escape Rachel's dry throat, as she feels a dull ache in her lower back. She struggles to sit up, grimacing at the bitter taste in her mouth, and an acid-like pain in her stomach, telling her she might have visited the toilet a couple of times throughout the night. Worse, she doesn't know where she is, but there's an elegant poster of the NYU Violets plastered on the wall to suggest that she's most probably in one of the Residence Halls. Rachel swings a leg off the bed and hits something soft.

Rising in panic, she hurriedly checks the floor.

There's a body there. A body, wrapped cocoon-like in a thick blue blanket. Unmoving. Is it breathing? Should she check if it's still alive? Rachel shakes her head, reminding herself that it's NYU, not some abandoned house in the middle of the desert. It's safe to say there's a fat chance of accidentally stepping on a dead body. Or Jesus, maybe she still not anywhere near half-sober. Just how many drinks did she had last night? Six, seven…? Not like Rachel even wants to find out, but it's a damn record breaker for sure. She needs a cold shower and a glass of water. Maybe both at the same time.

She had woken up like this on numerous occasions, so she's not entirely a novice when it comes to this sort of thing, though for it to happen even before the term begins is just down right unappealing. Her fathers, if they find out, they'd certainly be—

"—very disappointed in you!" Hiram's voice echoes through the receiver. Rachel closes her eyes and imagines her dad's face—red and stern, smoke billowing from his ears. God, it surely isn't helping her worst headache in history.

She had left the room as soon as she found her phone (warm and stuck inside the rear pocket of her jeans from yesterday), and read her inbox first out of habit. And now she regrets having called her dads before she even has the chance to clear her head and plan how her conversation with them should go.

But the minute she hears her fathers' gleeful, 'good morning, baby girl' the truth comes flying out of her mouth. It's like they know how to rip it out of her no matter where she is or how hard she tries to hide it.

"Rachel Barbra Berry, you have two minutes to explain." Hiram growls, his voice approaching a dangerous volume.

"It's not as bad as it looks. We were just having fun, kind of like a welcome celebration for new students." Rachel mutters quickly, pinching the bridge of her nose.

"Do you even hear yourself, young lady?" Leroy.

Rachel's kind of hoping that it's just Hiram, and her daddy won't ever have to know. But of course she's been put on speaker mode. The Berry men rarely hide anything from each other, much less when it involves Rachel.

Leroy continues, "Not a big deal? You don't wake up to someone else's room with no memories of last night and say 'it's not a big deal'."

"I'm sorry." Rachel whispers. Their temper hardly ever rises because with Rachel, they rarely ever need to. Every time it happens, there's a feeling of being caught unprepared, similar to running her fingers along a livewire that has been dormant for years until without warning, it snaps back to life.

"This won't happen again." Hiram warns. "Your daddy and I let you make your own decisions and we give you as much space as you want. We trust you, so much that you're there in New York 'land of do-as-you-please' City. But don't take that for granted, Rachel."

Defiant, she answers, "I'm nineteen. I'm not in high school any—"

"You aren't. That's why you should be more careful."

This conversation can only go so far, and she knows they're not going to let her go unless she acknowledges her mistake.

"I know." Rachel concedes finally.

"Baby girl, we're aware of how things have been difficult for you lately. But you know that can always talk to us about your problems, instead of participating in these meaningless festivities."

"Again, I didn't do it because I was unhappy—" Rachel abruptly blocks her sentence. She's too fucking tired to argue, so maybe she should just give this up. "Okay. I'm sorry. I promise it won't—h-happen again."

"Glad we're clear on that," Leroy replies. "Take care, Little Star. We love you."

"You too, dads."

She ends the call feeling relieved, and concentrates to sort out yesterday's events. With her mind considerably vivid enough, Rachel recalls the following: a place called 'Circus' which did not look like a circus at all (at least not the type Rachel imagined as a child); Puck's stupid drinking game which most likely is a cheap strategy to get girls drunk off their faces; and out of nowhere appears an empty bottle of Snapple, which belonged to—

Quinn.

Rachel blinks at the thought of the blonde settling in her mind. Quinn! She must have brought her home last night, which means—

Rachel rushes back to the room, pushes through the door and pulls the blanket away from the maybe-dead body sprawled on the floor.

"Qui—"

"Motherfucker!"

The instant she meets angry eyes that aren't hazel, Rachel's smile falters. "Sorry! I'm so sorry!" Rachel screams in return, disheartened and retreating. It's just that girl Georgia, or whoever she is— but definitely doesn't look like someone who occasionally indulges in Snapple.

She shuts the door quietly, all the while thinking of where Quinn had gone, or what happened after losing consciousness on that memorable pavement.

_**xxxxx**_

The day drags by with every second of it stretching like hours. Forbes guides them through the session as if she weren't with them at Circus, giving the impression that she's more than adjusted to the business of bringing a bunch of kids to a night club, and being their lecturer the next day. And that makes the brunette partial to the honorable-looking woman before them.

Quinn arrives late. She skirts around mutely in unmeasured strides and plops on her designated seat, without so much as heeding the curious gaze of her peers. She looks so… indifferent. Absent to the world. The barest hint of dark circles under her eyes suggests scarcely slept last night, causing Rachel to duck her head in guilt.

"Good morning, Quinn." Forbes welcomes her with verve.

"Good morning." The blonde mumbles to no one.

Rachel eyes stay fixed on her, hoping it would send some telepathic message and Quinn would glance her way. It feels as though she owes Quinn an apology for being a responsibility, and for anything she might have done that's rather off-putting. But her hazel eyes are void of any expression, like she has her thoughts somewhere else, so perhaps Rachel should save it for later. Besides, she's got the rest of the day.

_**xxxxx**_

Several hours later, Forbes has finished wrapping up the final part of the orientation. They're back in the dining area reserved for this workshop, and Rachel absentmindedly eyes the bowl of salad before her.

She still hasn't gotten hold of Quinn. Not for lack of trying or much less, an opening— as a matter of fact, there were plenty of them that she had missed due to that small part of her that is hesitant. Being around Quinn seems to be so much easier with booze clouding Rachel's judgment. At least she had her bleary vision, which she used as some sort of shield from Quinn's claustrophobic gaze. God, what's the protocol for approaching the person who saved your drunken ass?

Rachel idly pokes the mayonnaise-dressed potato with her fork. Fifteen feet. That's approximately Rachel's distance from Quinn, and she reminds herself that the worst thing that can happen is Quinn giving her a bland look in response. And that's something Rachel Berry can take any given day ever since the minute she stepped into New York City. She had gotten a handful of shoulder-shrugs in the past, most of which from people who seem to sniff out where she came from, like she's literally wafting of Lima or dirt. When it comes to dealing with discrimination, Rachel has learned two things: either you kill them with kindness or talent. They both work out, but she gets more satisfaction with the latter.

And Rachel Berry is oozing with talent and flare. So why can't she cross that fifteen feet distance and strike up a conversation like a normal person?

But Quinn doesn't generally fall into the category of normal, does she? Maybe she doesn't need a plan. Like yesterday night, when she didn't plan on getting trashed and meeting Quinn outside the pub. Maybe what works with Quinn is spontaneity. And holy shit, she's not exactly adept with that, having planned her entire future and all.

Rachel takes a deep nervous breath. Raking her eyes over the shiftless blonde by the corner, she gets into position. Here it goes.

"Hey, Rachel?"

Puck appears behind her, hands buried in his pockets. "Mind if I get your number?"

Rachel looks up at him and all she can see are the stuff he revealed during his ill-famed drinking game. Some of which, still makes her cringe and squeeze her eyes shut.

"I'm sorry but I'm n-not interested in—"

He abruptly raises a hand to quiet her. "Just in case you'd like to sing a duet with me some time." Puck explains with a grin, scoffing.

Rachel purses her lips, thinking. Music is music, and she can't deny that she misses being surrounded by people who share the same passion for it. She had come across offers like this in the past. There's only so much that one talented person can do, and having an accountability partner in music can set the bar higher.

She should at least, give this collaboration a chance.

"Do you have a pen?"

Puck smiles victoriously and plucks out one from his leather jacket. Rachel swiftly scribbles her number on his palm. She purposely leaves her full name below, just because she's sick of being called 'Michelle' the first time.

"I'll see you around," Puck glances at her elegant writing. "Rachel Berry."

Puck leaves her with a wink, which Rachel dismisses with a shake of her head. For a moment there, Rachel finds herself hating his guts.

She turns around, remembering Quinn and her spontaneous mission.

But to her dismay, Quinn's no longer anywhere to be seen. Rachel gapes sullenly at the empty chair previously occupied by the blonde. Maybe she'll her around… or not.

_**xxxxx**_

On her way home Rachel decides against taking a cab, saving around 30 dollars she can use for other expenses. She's starting off ground zero and jut wasted a year of tuition at Juilliard, the least she could do is manage her allowances appropriately.

She trudges down the street, pulling her suitcase behind with minimal difficulty. Rachel enjoys the drama of it all—falling from grace and ending up on her feet, dragging her life. It helps that she's currently residing in the more gracious parts of Manhattan. The upscale lifestyle makes everything—even hardships—no less than beautiful.

Something on her body vibrates, and Rachel gently locks her luggage to her side. She reaches inside her pocket and pulls out her phone, hoping it isn't another call from her fathers.

She beams at the name flashing on the LCD.

Shelley. Rachel quickly hits the accept button.

"Rae!"

"Shells!"

"Rae!"

"You have no idea how happy I am to be hearing your voice right now. How's it going?"

"Pretty swell. Guess who's at Starbucks Greenwich Village right now."

"Shelley Foxman, dancer extraordinaire?" Rachel exclaims in excitement. "Oh my god, seriously?"

"Seriously! Get your ass over here in fifteen minutes, or I'm ordering without you."

"I'm on my way!"

_**xxxxx**_

She spots Shelley even before she inside the cafe. The dancer scrambles to get up from her seat and throws her long arms around the tiny brunette, nearly knocking her down. She's strong and taller than Rachel by six inches so it's not surprising if one day, Rachel ends up tackled on the ground.

"I missed you, Gold star." Shelley whispers, resting her chin on top of the brunette's head.

"Missed you too..."

It's Shelley who pulls back and her eyes immediately surveys Rachel from head to toe.

"Wow, did you adopt a new form of diet?"

Rachel shakes her head. "You know what they say when you transfer, it's either you gain 'em or you lose 'em."

"I can't relate. Eating is my hobby anywhere. And drop the fake southern accent, you sound stupid."

"And you pull it like a rock star."

"Of course I do, I'm from Texas."

Rachel laughs heartily. "Come on, let's get our drinks." She says, and links their arms together.

They walk towards the counter. Shelley takes a minute choosing a Frappuccino and Rachel checks out the items on display as she waits for her turn. She ponders on her friend's comment on her weight loss and thinks she's probably going to gain it all once the official classes start (a week from today), so she might want to stay away from that strawberry cheesecake daunting at her behind a glass frame.

"Welcome to Starbucks! May I take your order?"

"You may. I'll have a tall soy latte and one of this." Rachel says, taking a granola bar from the item set to her right before glancing back at the delightful pastry that seems to daunt her with its generous topping of fresh strawberries.

She hears the staff clear his throat, causing Rachel to break eye contact with the cheesecake.

He looks appalled. And given his giant structure, he looks awkwardly funny to Rachel that she can't help letting out a small giggle.

Rachel's eyes fall on his nameplate. "How much do I owe you, Finn?"

"I uh— $3.50?" He couldn't sound more like a girl if he tries.

"Are you asking me?" Rachel teases. Shelley shoots her a knowing look.

"$3.50." He says more firmly.

"What was that?" Shelley asks nosily.

Rachel shrugs, smiling.

"Really, he was ready to jump over the counter and_ pounce_."

She laughs at the imagery, ignoring the implications underneath it. It's nice being wanted, to render a man speechless from time to time, but Rachel's got her hands full at the moment and he's…

He's just damn to tall for her, isn't he?

"So what brings you to Greenwich?" says Rachel, when they're settled on one of the couches.

"Actually, I need to tell you something," Shelley says, eyes dropping to the table between them. Seeing the reluctance in the dancer's eyes, Rachel squares her shoulders, preparing for the worst.

"It's about Jesse. I don't want you finding out the worst way—seeing his face plastered on a yellow bus or his name up there."

'There' could mean anything. But Rachel knew in an instant that it meant the giant Broadway ad located at Time Square.

Shelley tells her everything she heard on the deal they offered him. Next fall, he is set to play the lead role in an upcoming Broadway production of "Once". And he hasn't even completed four credits of opera studies, and yet—

And yet he is right where Rachel would have given _everything _to be.

At the outset she's angry. But she's been angry at him for such a long time that it feels comforting rather than mortifying. She wants—yearns— to forgive Jesse. She really does. She honestly thinks it's the only way to completely renew her self and start anew. But it's difficult when he persists in winning at every chance that she might've had if things happened differently.

"I'm sorry." Shelley murmurs quietly at the end, gauging Rachel's reaction.

"Thanks but I'm perfectly fine."

"Are you sure, Gold Star?"

Rachel gives her a toothy smile. "How are you doing back there?"

"Honestly? They're riding me pretty hard. They want to fuse us with your pool. Now don't take this the wrong way, but about more than half of them are worse divas than you are."

"I don't think it's really that complicated for you to get along with the drama department. I mean, you're friends with me, and it's not like I'm too different from them."

"But you are. God, I'm telling you Rach, you're the best among those people and—Oh my god!" Shelley shrieks all of a sudden and points at Rachel's cup. The brunette's heart stops and inspects her drink for a moment.

"No, silly. Here," Shelley guides her around her cup, and that's when Rachel spots the label. Instead of her name, a "to a beautiful girl with chocolate eyes" is scribbled in small at the bottom part so that it's not immediately recognizable. "Chocolate eyes. Couldn't he think of a better adjective?"

"Hey Rach, look," Shelley nods her head at Rachel's admirer who's awkwardly leaning behind the counter. "He's been giving you those puppy looks ever since you ordered that latte."

Rachel glances over her shoulder and she accidentally meets his gaze. Finn averts his eyes right away, but the way his forehead's anxiously creasing tells her that he knows he's been caught. How adorable.

"Although he's a bit soft around the edges, my advice is that you write your number on that napkin now."

"Shells! Keep your voice down!" The brunette hisses at her with ruddy cheeks.

"Fine. I'm just saying he looks cute enough to make-out with. And with all that's happening in your life right now, you can use a little… distraction."

Rachel makes a disapproving noise and playfully smacks the dancer's arm.

"Anyway, what's with the ginormous bag?"

She's startled for a while, before she remembers that she came here with a luggage which—

Her eyes are promptly everywhere, searching for her pink luggage.

"Calling the attention of all of our customers, we found a Samsonite stroller—"

"That's mine!" Rachel yells, scurrying towards the entrance where her bag is sitting.

_**xxxxx**_

She arrives at the apartment before midnight after touring her friend around her new neighborhood. The dancer was slightly impressed, but it's nothing she hasn't seen before. As a matter of fact, the apartment she shared with Shelley is located in the swankier areas of Upper West Side. Rachel thought about offering Shelley to see her new dorm room, but threw ultimately flung out the idea at the possibility of Santana being home.

And now after stepping inside, she's more than glad that she didn't invite Shelley in. The room's absolutely filthy. Rachel cautiously walks across the room. She passes by Santana's bedroom and peeks in to see if she's there but (to Rachel's relief) it's deserted.

Right when she's sure that she's all by herself, the bathroom door bursts open.

And through the shadowy steam, out came a very half-naked Santana Lopez.

Oh.

Rachel's mouth drops to the floor, not for the exposed areas of her roommates' body that should _not _be exposed in front of anyone in the first place, but for the fact that she's drenching the maple flooring of their living room. And she only mopped the thing two nights ago.

She brushes past Rachel, smirking at the small brunette's reaction. Rachel gapes at the Latina, trying not to think about how this makes the shower ten times grosser than any part of apartment that has suffered under Santana's care (or the complete lack thereof). But before Rachel can berate her roommate, another distraction comes without warning.

Another naked, sun-kissed flesh steps out of the bathroom.

And it belongs to an unfamiliar woman.

A woman._ Oh._

Wait, is that her towel?

Santana's visitor has the good grace to blush when the Latina gives her ten minutes tops to get dressed and leave the apartment immediately.

"Call me?" She yells after Santana, clutching the soft material around her body.

"Uh-huh." Santana mumbles absently and throws a shirt after her guest.

Rachel fumes. That is, without a doubt, her goddamn towel.

"Jesus, your face." Santana smirks, toweling her hair.

Rachel lifts her chin at the Latina, wearing an expression between embarrassment and irritation. "You don't need to parade your female parts just to prove that despite your _caveman_ attitude you are, indeed, feminine." Rachel says through gritted teeth, trailing behind the Latina.

"I'm a bitch, not a fucking homo-sapien. Get your adjectives right, honey. Where were you anyway? For two days I thought you've been murdered, so I threw a party for two." Santana says, looking pointedly at the bathroom door.

"Wow, thanks a lot."

"Welcome. Anyway, why were you missing really? Are you like, a part-time porno star who shoots off-campus, or—"

Rachel decides to cut Santana off before her sentence progresses into something more graphic. "I attended the Steindhart orientation for two days, which I believe, I mentioned in a note I left on the fridge that you obviously ignored. And no, I don't make it a habit to walk around naked in front of other people. Also if you can't tell, I was being sarcastic."

"Fuck, you _do_ have a machinegun mouth," Santana says with a short laugh. Rachel rolls her eyes. It's like singing to deaf ears with this girl. Initiating a _proper _conversation with her is just pointless.

"How was it anyway? Met some hot dudes? …Or girls?"

Rachel groans. "Why are you even talking to me?"

"Just meet me halfway here, Berry. Making an effort to be a person is physically hurting me."

Rachel exhales heavily and says, "Fine. I got drunk and passed out on a street."

"Sounds fun to me." Santana snorts. Of course she'd enjoy this.

"Yeah, I bet," Rachel says. "Could you uhm, cover your self now?"

"Prude." Santana banters, smirking as she proceeds to change in her room.

"What happened the next morning?" Santana says, jumping into the couch and wearing an oversized NYU hoodie. Rachel eyes her curiously. Not that she's counting, but she was gone for barely two minutes.

"I'm not sure. The details of it come in fragments every hour. I might let you know when I recover the full story of it for your entertainment. Well, only if you start being nice." Rachel answers coolly, unpacking her overnight luggage.

"So how did you manage to stay alive? This shit never happened with me before, but even I have to say that doesn't sound safe at all. And being from Brooklyn, that's saying something."

"Quinn brought me to one of the rooms back in the Founders Hall, I guess."

"Wait, Quinn? Quinn who?"

"I met her there and unfortunately, under unlikely circumstances."

"Blonde, airhead-looking jock Quinn?"

She flashes Santana a curious glance. "I'm not sure if we're talking about the same person. But yes, she has—"

"—short blonde hair."

The brunette's eyes widen in surprise. "And hazel eyes—"

Santana scowls in distaste. "Geez, really? I haven't stared into the soulful eyes of Quinn Fabray."

Quinn Fabray? Rachel muses with a thoughtful smile. _So that's her surname—Fabray._

And before she can get carried away by this information, Rachel revert her attention back to the Latina, all kinds of questions stirring in her brain. "You know Quinn?"

"Assuming it's the same _Quinn,_ yeah I do."

Rachel gasps, causing the Latina to give her a weird look. "But how? You've been here for two years, and I'm positive she's a new student here like me—"

"Again, assuming it's the same Quinn, you've got it all wrong. She's a sophomore like me. In fact, we were together in the soccer team."

_She plays soccer?_ Rachel's mouth opens, and then closes again.

She thought she at least knew a thing or two about Quinn. That one, she's tremendous at displaying a cryptic allure, and that two, she likes to stare at people while doing so. But it figures there's nothing she knows about Quinn—_Quinn Fabray_. Quinn's not secretive. She's literally closed off to the world.

"Do you know how I can get in touch with her? I wanted to thank her for being there during the stupidest moment of my life."

"No." Santana shakes her head curtly.

"But aren't you guys friends?"

"Back-up a bit, Berry, I never said Quinn and I were friends. And considering her close acquaintanceship with _Brittany_, I highly doubt it."

At the mention of 'Brittany', it's obvious that Santana's let something slip without her full intention, because she looks about ready to run and never come back.

"Who's Brittany?" Rachel asks, clearly pleased with Santana's distress.

Santana's eyes are hard and cold, but she answers, "Brittany's my… ex-girlfriend."

Rachel's taken aback. She thought maybe Brittany's a rival, or some frenemy but she wasn't expecting this. Santana doesn't appear to be someone who gets into relationships, let alone a romantic one.

"The only girl I had." Santana adds meekly. She's not even hiding the regret in her voice, and from hearing those words, Rachel can guess this girl's different from the one who had just left the apartment, or anyone in that matter. For a second there, she sees vulnerability hiding behind a cold exterior.

"Did she mess you up or something? Is she the reason why you're like this?"

"Like what?"

"No offense, but you're kind of a bitch."

Santana laughs, "None taken. And no, she didn't do anything to… damage me."

"What happened then?"

For a second, Santana seem to consider revealing all her secrets to the brunette, but she blinks once and Rachel can see her defensive walls coming up again.

"Quinn Fabray's a catch." Santana winks at her.

_Quinn Fabray_. Rachel repeats it quietly to herself. The letters roll perfectly in her tongue. Quinn Fabray. It's rare and beautiful.

Before Rachel can say more, Santana retreats to her own room. To the brunette's amusement, she doesn't slam the door this time.

It's enough progress for one night. Besides, scrubbing the shower's her top priority for now.

* * *

*MQOTD- from now on I will use this acronym instead of the whole 'motivational quote of the day'

*'Land of do-as-you-please' - term borrowed from the Magic Faraway Tree, which also has been used thoroughly in V for Vendetta.


	5. Little Talks

Chapter 5 – *Little Talks

A quality she bears ever since being born into the Berry household is that her mind never runs out of thought. Literally. Rachel used to jokingly request her dads to get her checked up just to see if she possesses any type of hyperactivity disorder, since seems that her body is constantly in some form of action. But her fathers took this playful suggestion seriously, reminding Rachel that there is absolutely nothing wrong with her. Though even if she did have an insatiable need to be doing something all the time, they're not going to let anyone coin it wrongly.

But with thoughts— when they rain, they pour. And at night, when the lights are off and nothing but static noise fills the empty air, they swarm Rachel at night like bees for honey. It's the kind of thing that's impossible to turn away from until you get it out of your system.

So thinking of Quinn Fabray is not weird at all, because it's not just Rachel— anyone who gets to meet her will have to think about her at some point. It's like when you look up at the sky and see it for what it is since forever, and then ask yourself why it's blue while watching the television or being in the middle of a riot. It's downright inevitable.

Lying on her bed, Rachel turns on her back and stares up the ceiling. She had given up on sleeping five minutes ago, and allowed her mind to drift to anywhere it pleases. And almost immediately, it landed on the blonde whose last name she learned only the other day. Not to mention, it came from someone else who doesn't even consider their selves friends. Honestly, she had (still has) tons of questions for Santana concerning Quinn Fabray, but it's Santana—

Normally, she wouldn't make assumptions on a person she has only known for less than a month. But it wouldn't hurt to be careful. It's not that she doesn't trust Santana. Well, in truth, she doesn't. Not yet anyway, even if she's seen her softer side proving there's something beyond her bitchy exterior.

And given that, it just makes Rachel ache more for answers. First, what the fuck was Quinn doing at an orientation exclusive for Steindhart students? And anyway, she didn't need it because it turns out that she might even know more than what Katrina Forbes let on. Finally, why didn't she bother to tell her (or anyone for that matter) all those information? They had two days. It's very usual to let something like 'by the way I'm a sophomore who plays soccer for the Violets' over a pizza break. They're not well-kept secrets, are they? Not like she's going to lose an arm if she tells a little about herself.

But that's the thing—Quinn looks like she's going to literally hurt if exposes even just a tiny bit of herself. And this is the point where Rachel gets lost in the maze. Personally it gives Rachel positive feelings when she talks about herself. She's read somewhere that around 78% of the population discloses their own opinions, their personal beliefs, everything they can associate with their self. Now, if there are about 7 billion in the world, that makes around 546 million who feel otherwise, and then, distributing this figure to the appropriate racial ratio, only 4.5% of them are living in the United States of America.

24,570,000 still seems like a sea of people, doesn't it? But considering more factors like age, sex, and geography... Rachel reduces the likelihood of self-indulgent people to less than a thousand. And the fact that New York currently has an estimated population of 8 million, she concludes that the odds of meeting one doesn't climb anywhere near 0.01%.

That's right, she fucking did the math.

Ultimately, this can only mean one thing: that Quinn Fabray is an utterly rare find. Once this thought completely sinks in, Rachel realizes she's in deep trouble. Because she keeps picturing Quinn playing soccer, and keeps thinking what it's like to watch her. She wants to ask Quinn what's so enjoyable about this sport, if it makes her feel half as good as Rachel does when she sings or more.

God, why is it that you're invariably drawn to those who hold themselves back? Maybe she'll just take these questions to school and make her course useful. Because right now, she can't see how it won't serve a purpose like what her friends back at Juilliard said when she disclosed her decision to transfer.

Rachel closes her eyes, feeling exhausted enough to succumb to sleep. For the rest of the time before the first semester officially starts, Rachel forgets about Quinn.

_**xxxxx**_

Though a week later, she sits in her first psychology class, "Theories of Personality", with Quinn in mind. She keeps thinking when she will run into the girl again. And she keeps thinking _why_ she wants to, while her brain stubbornly relates the topic to the blonde to see if she can fit together some pieces of the puzzle. Her professor had outlined the course and briefly introduced them to some of the concepts under this subject. Most of them are outrageously mortifying.

For a moment Rachel wonders just how many of her future patient will bear these kinds of mental structure, before she remembers that she won't have any patient at all because this course will serve another purpose.

And this purpose is beginning to feel like nothing related to Broadway, but more like a temporary hide-out from her inner conflicts. Because sitting in this class for a little over an hour has made her realize that there's more to leaving Juilliard as a result of an event that shattered her heart to pieces, but that while she's in love with her dream she's also unhappy.

No, she hasn't been 'Rachel Berry happy' in a long time.

She checks her phone when her professor starts dropping anecdotes on her Siamese cat, and goes over her motivational quote of the day for the umpteenth time:

_"To be nobody but yourself in a world that's doing its best to make you somebody else, is to fight the hardest battle you are ever going to fight. Never stop fighting. — E.E Cummings_"

Indeed, the hardest battle is with oneself.

_**xxxxx**_

They are dismissed with an assignment for next week: find three people who you think have significant differences with each other personality-wise. Their task is to describe these people individually, and point out their strengths and weaknesses. Rachel knows a handful of interesting people. But the thing is she hasn't met more than half of them.

"Hi, my name is Rachel Berry. I just want to discuss the assignment. Do they have to be real people?" She asks after the bell rang ages ago.

"And what is your concept of 'real', Ms. Berry?"

"Real as in… _tangible_?" Rachel answers slowly.

"I guess what you're clarifying here is if you can look into fictional characters instead of someone you personally know. It's up to you, Ms. Berry. You have to decide whether characters from movies and literature are real or as you put it 'tangible', or not."

Rachel nods. "Thank you."

She barely makes it outside when someone suddenly calls to her.

"Rachel?"

She hesitantly looks over her shoulder, unsure if she heard right. Steindhart College is the last place on Earth she counts on to be recognized.

"Me?" Rachel asks, pointing to herself.

The girl nods. "You're Rachel Berry?"

Rachel blinks at the blue-eyed blonde towering over her.

"Hi, I'm Brittany, Quinn's friend?"

Rachel looks at her with more purpose and blurts out, "You're Santana's Brittany" without thinking.

"I'm not Santana's anymore." Brittany answers nonchalantly with a smile.

"Oh, sorry." Rachel utters quickly, cheeks flushing. She wasn't thinking when she dropped Santana's name like that. Given their history and their obviously complicated status, she'd know it's not the most appropriate topic to start with. But Rachel can't help but confirm that this is girl who makes Santana _not_ Santana by just mentioning her name. She had imagined this Brittany to be feisty or even a few times more intimidating than Santana.

And she is once again mistaken (in the back of her mind she re-thinks her course altogether, after being wrong about people so many times recently). Brittany is...

"It's so very nice to meet you, Rachel!"

Rachel gazes up at her dumbly, caught off guard by Brittany's exuberant attitude. A while ago she's mulling over her unhappiness but being in this girl's presence makes it hard for Rachel to remember that she's ever sad to begin with.

It's odd, but she eventually catches up with Brittany's bubbliness and forces a smile of her own.

"Same here!" She says, and recalls a name Brittany dropped earlier in their meeting. "So, uh, you're a friend of Quinn?"

"I do. That's why I'm here, actually. Quinn informed me about you."

Informed? Rachel swallows hard.

"She did." Rachel whispers to herself in unbelief.

"She did?" the brunette repeats, louder for Brittany to hear. Yet what Rachel really wants to ask is: _What else did she say about me?_

Brittany nods very eagerly. "I stalked you online, and that's why I recognized you. When Quinn told me that you have a wonderful voice, so I just had to meet you."

The rest of Brittany's sentence drowns in the background because all Rachel can think of is that tiny bit of fact that Quinn mentioned her to one of her friends. Moreover, Quinn thinks she has a "wonderful voice". It makes Rachel inwardly smile because apparently, Quinn had been listening while she hummed one of her favorite songs that night. But above all, it's a good sign that Quinn might be interested in becoming her friend just as Rachel is.

"— will you consider it?"

"Sorry? Could you repeat that please?"

Brittany rolls her eyes in a polite way and says, "I said, will you consider joining an all-square club?"

"Which is...?"

"Middle C: a music performance community service club. We'd like you to join us."

"And if I may, what does Middle C do exactly?"

Brittany lifts her chin proudly, and for a second, Rachel thinks she's about to embark on a long salesman speech and give her a well-structured mission-vision statement, but the blonde's answer comes frank and solid.

"We organize mini performances in areas such as hospitals, charity events, nursing homes and the like." And Rachel has to admire the recognizable flicker in Brittany's eyes as it burns with selfless devotion and pride—like they're telling Rachel, "this is what we do, and you wouldn't trade this for the world".

Looking at this hopeful, charitable girl makes it harder to believe that she had once been involved with Santana Lopez.

"Brittany, I'm really honored to be invited," Rachel says, adjusting the strap of her shoulder bag. "And being part of something crossed my mind even before I made a final decision to transfer here. As a matter of fact, I've looked into the university's organizations directory beforehand and I must say— having over 300 clubs is impressive. But seeing that I'm still acclimating to life here at NYU and evaluating the intricacy of my subjects, I have to consider this carefully before I make another rash decision."

Brittany gapes at her in wonder. "Wow, Quinn totally wasn't kidding..."

Rachel's brows furrow. "Pardon?"

Brittany's smile just brightens, before she moves in to hug Rachel. "At Middle C, we make it possible for music to reach anyone, not just those who can afford to."

Rachel beams at that. Her arms—which were awkwardly hanging to her sides—finally loops around the blonde. "It's a commendable endeavor."

"Promise to think about it?" Brittany mumbles when they pull away. "Please?"

The look on the blonde's face reminds Rachel of a little girl craving for comfort after waking up from a nightmare. It's impossible to turn away from this small request regardless if she wants to.

"I promise." Rachel says with an assuring smile. She gives Rachel her number with a last, "Please, call me, even if you'll say no."

Rachel just nods and gives Brittany hers out of courtesy. She might get castigated by her roommate for this, but she doesn't see any immediate harm in this acquaintanceship. But she's also not thrilled to let Santana know she has plans to hang-out sometime with her ex-girlfriend.

_**xxxxx**_

_Fucking rain. Of all the days in this week_—

Rachel kicks a tiny pebble off the track field, but the minimal action's not enough to satisfy the strain she's feeling out of having to cancel her plans to go for a run this afternoon. Now she's left with a huge, unattractive duffel bag behind her, and there's no way she can burn that 500-something calories she had for lunch. Just fucking great.

She heads towards the bleachers and sits under one of the few tarps for cover. Judging by the dimness of the sky, the rain's going to get worse, and it doesn't look like it's going to let up anytime soon. So while she's at it, Rachel takes the time to review Brittany's invitation to join Middle C.

She sees it as charity work. Rachel's ashamed to admit that she hasn't really been involved in this sort of activities before, being concentrated in beating everyone to the top and chasing her dreams. If ever, this is going to be the first time she performs not for her glory or to win a show choir competition, but to simply introduce music and hand them as a gift to those who need it. It's a noble idea—it's just that, she doesn't know how invested she is, and she doesn't want to commit to something and abandon it when she runs out of zeal.

Rachel sighs and shakes off the thought. Maybe she'll deal with this later. Having a rainy moment like this makes her sentimental, and she just wants to revel in the sound of the heavy droplets of water hitting the ground. _This experience would be so much better with Clair de Lune playing in the background_, Rachel thinks as she observes the empty stadium.

Time moves slowly and Rachel realizes she's not used to living like a hermit inside this huge bubble of diverse individuals called a "university". She wants to call up her old friends, but she knows at some point, she has to move on.

"Hello,"

Her entire form goes rigid for a second. _That voice. _Rachel has to blink several times to make sure she isn't hallucinating. That in fact, the inexpressive blonde is an arm's length away from her.

She takes in Quinn—in mid-thigh shorts and a plain grey shirt, stooped slightly like she's been here for some time now and just watching Rachel float away from reality (probably not, because just how creepy is that?).

Rachel briefly wonders if it's Quinn's favorite color or she just happens to wear them every time they meet on yet another pleasant circumstance.

And Rachel thought they'd never see each other again after that awkward beginning.

Quinn smiles and it reaches her eyes. She still looks at Rachel the way a child looks at the world.

"Quinn," Rachel's voice hitches, still unable to wrap her mind around the fact that Quinn just ran into her. A small part of her wants to appeal that perhaps, Quinn had also wished for them to meet again.

"Rachel."

"This is a… pleasant surprise?" Rachel mutters uncertainly.

"It… is," Quinn responds in the same degree of reluctance. "Where are you off to?"

"I planned to go for a run, but…" Rachel says, gesturing towards the weeping clouds. "Obviously, nature decided to go against me."

Quinn merely stands there, motionless and unresponsive like she's waiting for Rachel to say more. And so Rachel continues babbling about her regret of not checking the weather today and bringing a raincoat.

When she runs out of things to say, Quinn merely eyes her with pure amusement and says, "Yeah… But _where _are you headed now?"

That's when she realizes that technically she didn't answer Quinn's question.

"Just here." Rachel answers softly, blushing in embarrassment. "Hey, uhm, I wanted to thank you for—for bringing me to the Residence Hall after I fell asleep on you. I can't imagine what could've happened to me if you just left me there."

"Welcome." Quinn replies like it's no big deal, twisting her waist from side to side before moving to sit beside the brunette. "So, how do you do it?"

"Do what?" Rachel looks up at her in confusion.

Quinn's gaze starts scattering everywhere as she mutters, "Run? I mean, uh, do you put on earphones while you go? Or do you—" Quinn pauses, shaking her head. "Uh, whatever."

Rachel giggles besides her because there's something different—or progressive—on how Quinn communicates with her now.

Quinn sheepishly glances at her sideways.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to laugh. There isn't anything funny about what you said. But did you know that's the lengthiest thing you've ever said to me?"

Quinn levels her with a look, eyes narrowing before she runs a hand through her hair and says nothing.

Rachel ducks her head, fiddling with the zipper of her hoodie. "And then you're back to being muted. I'm sorry. Does that sort of thing turn you off?"

Quinn shakes her head, keeping her eyes on Rachel. "I just didn't have anything to say to that."

"Oh."

"…"

"How about you, Quinn? Were you headed somewhere?" Rachel asks, cursing the little crack in her voice. Talking to Quinn is like skirting around a lion. She can't grasp why she's being so tactful when it comes to the blonde.

Quinn shakes her head. "Soccer practice got cancelled."

"Sorry to hear. How often do you practice?"

"Everyday. Weekends included."

Rachel smirks. She imagines Quinn to be kind of ambitious when it comes to sport. "That takes a lot of discipline. Are you any good?"

"What do you think?"

"Well, I haven't seen you play."

Quinn studies her for a moment. And this thing that she does, where she gazes at Rachel far more than the norm, causes the brunette to gulp nervously. And then her voice drops to a whisper. "I think you should… see me play."

Brown eyes flutter away from the blonde. Later when she gets home, she'll have to look up on Google 'how to know if someone's flirting with you'. Because she's not sure how she should interpret the lowness of Quinn's voice.

"Are you hungry?" Rachel anxiously chews at her lower lip, not quite believing she just put that question out there intending for Quinn to take the hint. With nowhere else to go to, no plans for the rest of the day, maybe they could hang-out for a while. That wouldn't be weird, would it?

"I could eat." Quinn answers and thank god, her eyes are no longer piercing her from head to toe.

"You want to have dinner then?" Rachel blinks in surprise, expecting Quinn to decline because—

Because in the most basic sense, she's unlike Brittany or anyone Rachel's ever met. She doesn't give first-timer hugs and an engaging aura. She gives off a distant vibe that makes Rachel hesitant to do anything that might scare her off.

Quinn's gaze drops to her lap in thought. "It depends on what you have in mind."

"I know a place from my neighborhood where they offer both vegan and non-vegan choices."

"Are you asking me to drop you off in front of your apartment?" Quinn interrupts softly, but the way she says it is like she's accusing Rachel of taking advantage of the opportunity.

Rachel shakes her head harshly. "God, no! It's not like that, I—"

"Sorry. That came out wrong, did it?" Quinn says, shifting in her seat uncomfortably.

"I was just thinking that maybe you'd like to try out this restaurant near my place. I read really good reviews about it. I wasn't even aware that you have a car…"

Quinn flashes Rachel a lopsided smile and says, "I'm just messing with you. You take me too seriously, Ms. Rachel."

Quinn stands up and gathers her things. "Are you ready?"

Rachel hurriedly gets on her feet and notices just how wobbly her legs are. "So that restaurant?"

_**xxxxx**_

"I met your friend Brittany earlier today." Rachel says, forking her vegan stew. Quinn drove them to the place Rachel suggested and after a few minutes of stalling around inside the restaurant, Quinn had asked if they could just order take-out and bring it back to her car.

"Really," Quinn peeks at her solemnly from where half of her face is obscured in her own arm. She's been bent forwards on the steering wheel ever since they got back in. The doubly tint in the blonde's car windows makes it difficult for light to pass through, and as a result, Rachel can only make out a pair of hazel eyes in the dark. She can't help but notice that Quinn's eyes looks a little more green than the last time she's seen them.

"Yeah, she said you had a few things to say about me."

Quinn stiffens. Rachel takes note of this reaction, so maybe in the future when she learns enough of Quinn Fabray she'll be able to put together a manual and it would help mankind a great deal.

"What did she tell you?"

"Small stuff… She said you think I'm a wonderful singer."

"Is that right?"

"What? Are you denying it now?"

Quinn smiles at that, and buries her face further into the hand wheel. "You like Brittany then?"

"Very much, I think we'll be good friends in the future. She reminds me of a friend of mine back at Juilliard."

"I like her too."

A distinct thought crosses Rachel's mind at hearing the blonde's response and she's suddenly overcome with the need to know if she has it all figured out.

"You mean you like her, like…" Rachel trails off, hoping to get her message across the blonde without the need to be blunt about it.

"…like?"

"You know."

Quinn keeps on with a questioning look and Rachel can't tell if Quinn's entirely clueless of what she's going on about, or she merely likes to pretend and squeeze them out in the open. Jesus, it's hard to force the words through tongue. Is it conventional to ask someone you've only met twice if they're gay?

But Quinn has already trapped her inside a Lexus car and a presence that keeps drawing the brunette in.

"Y-You like her like… you're supposed to like a guy, I guess."

"Pardon?"

Rachel finds a second to phrase her sentence better. "You like her in a non-platonic way?"

"Ah." Quinn muses. And then her face stretches into a mischievous grin. "Define 'non-platonic'?"

God, she's not going to get out of this alive. Quinn's going to dance around the thought, bombard her with questions and kill her nervous system. And all the while, she'll wear that enigmatic smile.

Rachel sighs, and stares out the windshield. "I didn't mean to pry. I was just wondering if you're—" She lets out a nervous laugh and her hands find purchase in the plush cushion of the car seat. "If you're—"

Jesus, breathe.

"I'm not… anything, if that's what you're asking. I don't want anything or anyone right now." Quinn says after a beat.

Okay. It still sounds vague but Rachel will take it for what it is. But—

"Why?"

Quinn leans back from the driving steering wheel and squares her shoulders.

"I should get you home."

_**xxxxx**_

Quinn drops her off a block away from the Greenwich Hotel. She waves at Quinn and sustains a grateful smile until the blonde's car disappears around the curb. As soon as she's gone, Rachel's face falls. Things clearly had gone wrong when she mouthed that one-word question.

"Why"—it's perplexing how it can dismantle an engaging discussion. For a long time, Rachel stays frozen in her spot. She thinks of all the ways she could've stirred the conversation in a direction that wouldn't end with Quinn saying she should already drive Rachel home.

Then something inside her bag beeps like a wake-up call. It reaches her ears not as a sound to indicate that someone just texted her, but as something to remind her that it's useless to dwell in might-have-beens.

Rachel pinches the bridge of her nose hard. She forgot to ask Quinn for her number. But anyway it doesn't matter now that she's set the blonde off with her nosiness.

She retrieves her phone and checks the text that has just arrived.

_Brittany: Rachel! Quinn totally thinks you should join our organization! _

Rachel bites the inside of her cheek. Brittany doesn't need to coax her anymore on this. She already made her decision two hours ago.

* * *

*Chapter title "Little Talks" is from a song by Of Monsters and Men

**AN:** You guys are amazing! Thank you for all the reviews, alerts and corrections. Sorry it took me long to update. I've been busy with work, concerts, sports and other stuff. I'm really hyperactive, and I like doing a variety of things which makes me postpone writing. I'm very invested in this story, so just expect that I'll update at least once a week.

_P.S Anyone who has tumblr? Add me up: biggerthanwhales_


	6. Definitely, Maybe

Chapter 6 – Definitely, Maybe

"No."

"Shelley."

"No."

"Shells!"

"No, Berry, I'm not giving you permission to write down my weirdness on a paper and present it in front of twenty-something people!" Shelley slams down her cup dramatically, punctuating the finality of her decision.

She casts Shelley a dark look, before huffing and concentrating on her cheesecake. Nothing feels better than satisfying a craving. They're back in the same place they met last time, a discreet Starbucks branch near her place. Shelley insisted they hang-out at Rachel's dorm, but she's not ready to introduce her Juilliard friend to her roommate yet. Besides, knowing Santana's penchant for slim dancers with blonde hair, Rachel fears she'll prey on Shelley like a hungry wolf.

"That's the point, there's only twenty-something of them, and there isn't even a one percent chance you'd know anyone from my class or NYU for that matter."

"_When _I become a prominent dancer, I'd be rather horrified if find this up for auction on eBay."

Rachel snorts at that. It's difficult to win a discussion with Shelley. Sometimes it makes her curious to see if Shelley had gone to law school instead.

"I'm not going to let anyone steal my hard-drive, I swear."

"Why not just ask your dads? Personally, their consistency on sending you those quotations really baffles me. Which, by the way, makes me utterly jealous of you. They're great people, Rach."

"They are," Rachel agrees wistfully. "They're thinking about adopting you, actually."

Shelley's eyes widen comically. "I know you're pretty stuck to them like white on rice, so no thanks."

Rachel smiles coyly. "They're not going to be happy about that you know."

"Please, they've told me countless times how they are that you didn't turn out like me."

"That's mean. I'm sorry."

Shelley smirks. "I took it as a compliment—ow!" The dancer rubs soothingly at where Rachel had hit her. "You sure got more violent up there! But going back, do you really want to pick me? From what you described of your assignment, these three people are eventually meant overlap each other, or harmonize or whatever term you used that I can't remember."

"Converge," Rachel supplies coolly. "Yes, it's plausible to happen if the first draft would bear potential to be continued as a final term paper. Otherwise, I'll have to look for another topic and right now, I can't think of anything as interesting. And please don't talk with your mouth full."

"Yeah that. Also, since we're no longer rooming together, our living agreement no longer applies to my eating habits and as well as other things that requires compliance." Shelley says, flashing Rachel a huge smile that has all her teeth and little morsels of food nastily on display.

Rachel quickly looks away, groaning inwardly.

"Geez, see? I told you, you wouldn't want me to be your guinea pig. And have you even thought about the two others you're going to experiment?"

"It's not an experiment—it's just an analysis on…" Rachel trails off, pressing her thumb to bridge of her nose. They've come to this point where Rachel can tell that no matter how she tries Shelley just won't budge. Though if Shelley agrees, Rachel's likely to owe her one and the last time Shelley made her pay her dues she kind of regretted asking Shelley's help in the first place. It figures that no friendship's perfect after all. But that's fine.

"You called me 'Berry'." Rachel says with a somber expression after a fleeting lag of just savouring the smell of roasting coffee and the calming music of Bon Iver. There's something about this place which tells her it isn't meant for conversations like this. It merits a gentler approach, and Rachel can't help but picture herself in the near future, coming here alone with a good book tuck under her arm. Lately though, her schedule's been quite hectic. She can't even remember the last time she read a single line from the title she's currently straining to finish.

Shelley tilts her head languidly and says, "Jesse used to call you 'Berry' all the time. Anyway, what's the science behind Quinn Fabray?"

Rachel nearly chokes at the abrupt mention of Quinn. Two nights ago, she called Shelley to relieve herself of her frustration concerning the soccer player. Her ranting went for two minutes before Shelley interrupted her— albeit sharply— demanding to know who this Quinn is and if she's the new addition to her roommate club.

"Yeah, about her," Rachel crosses her legs together. "I, uh, I don't know."

"She your roommate's friend?"

Rachel shakes her head. "In fact, Santana didn't classify their relationship like the rest. Exhibit A—she continues to ignore my humble attempts at establishing a workable system inside our shared space."

"I kind of like her." Shelley says, sipping her warm drink soundly to Rachel's distaste.

"You haven't even met her." Rachel points out crossly. "And you're kind of an ass for saying that."

"The idea of her then," Shelley shrugs. "She challenges you."

"It seems I'm constantly meeting the challenging ones."

"Like this Quinn Fabray, yeah? So, tell me what's got you so riled up the other night." Shelley grins slyly, her choice of words failing to catch Rachel's notice.

"I… I'm not sure. I can't recall why I've been so upset after she dropped me near the hotel."

Shelley tucks a palm under her chin. "Hmmm… My guess is it's because you had to walk a full block? 'Cause any normal person would insist to drive you right outside the lobby or even walk you upstairs."

Rachel laughs at that because it's silly to admit that Shelley's guess is sort of half-right, but it's for the wrong reasons she's diffident to find out.

"Have you," Rachel fiddles with her napkin while she searches for the right words. After a while she's uncertain whether she's making crane or a ship, but either way the material's too lax to transform it into anything. "Have you ever met someone who completely demolishes your expectations and leaves you utterly—for lack of a better term—dismantled?"

Shelley's thoughtful for some time, not exactly sure where Rachel's going with this question. She thinks she knows, but she holds back to wait for a more amiable opening. "I can't answer that, Gold Star. To me it seems… something that happens every day with obsessed fans."

Rachel drops her head, clearly dissatisfied with the answer she received. She reckoned Shelley would understand her conflict with Quinn's ambiguous character and provide some kind of consolation in knowing she isn't the only one.

"Anyway, I put some thought about what you said the other day. Just that—can I be honest here?"

Rachel looks up at her, face tinge with a little desperation. "Please."

Shelley plays with her straw, rolling it between her fingers before taking a deep breath and looking squarely at the confused brunette in front of her. "You're not... into her, are you?"

She must have been unresponsive longer than she thinks because when she returns to herself and to reality, Shelley's leaning forwards and eyeing her worriedly. She's speaking, but Rachel's ears have gone deaf, and all she hears is "you're not into her, are you?" playing on repeat like a distant echo in her ears on and on and on.

She's had girl crushes before, pretty ones who smile too many times. She's made out with one but it required five shots of tequila and game of spin the bottle to get her to push her tongue inside a very unfamiliar territory. Other than that particular experience, she's only been with men.

And as far as she knows, Quinn's not her type. Like, at all. She knew herself to be always drawn to people who give her the slightest bit of attention. For weeks she obsessed over Jesse after he randomly serenaded her inside a music store. He sang a few lines, but they happened to be Rachel's favourite, and it resulted into mooning over the boy for weeks. From there, things between them progressed smoothly.

So the answer should be no, because Quinn is… resilient. She's not baiting Rachel with anything.

But maybe not baiting _is _baiting her. Because they say that there's nothing more attractive than someone who's out of reach. Untouchable.

And yet Rachel continues to consider all sensible argument there is, because the last time she decided she liked someone it didn't end well.

And yet she can't also deny that she thinks Quinn is beautiful. The most beautiful girl she's ever met…

"Rachel." Shelley nudges her shoulder, now angling her head away from the brunette. "You're not going to punch me, are you?"

"No..."

"Good. I know it's too soon to ask, but judging from the way you talk about her... That's the first thing that came to me, okay?"

"Okay." Rachel blinks a couple of times to fully recover. "I… haven't thought about it."

"Why not? You're not repelled by the idea of being with a woman, are you? Considering what happened between us New Year's Eve, when we—"

"Yeah, we, uh—"

Shelley abruptly clears her throat in an effort to stir them in a less awkward position.

"I just got out of a relationship over three months ago." Rachel reasons uncertainly.

"Which means you're ready for a new one, right? Isn't that the universal rule in conservative dating? Though I don't really see Jesse as conservative, sorry."

"How will I know?"

"The same way you'll know if you enjoy a particular sex position," Shelley grins impishly. "You try it."

Rachel snorts at her friend's bluntness. "What? Are you're saying I should just… lay _one_ on her the next time we see each other?"

"My ways are _my_ ways. I don't give advice which I don't apply myself."

Rachel arches an eyebrow, drinking in the suggestion with defiance. "If I_ do_ like her, it still doesn't make sense why."

"I've never met anyone quite like her before." Shelley replies.

"Come again?"

"Our last Skype call? Those are the exact words you said to me the first time you mentioned Quinn."

Rachel pauses thoughtfully. "You don't think that's enough reason to suddenly like someone, do you?"

Shelley shakes her head. "How about you eliminate the _why_, and let me ask you again. Do you like Quinn?"

Yes. "No."

"I said, stop thinking dummy."

"I can't! I need to think about this." Rachel sinks further into her seat, pulling her knees to herself in a defensive pose. The last thing she needs is being caught up in feelings again and frankly, sorting this out only makes her want to see Quinn more and she doesn't even know how to get in touch with the blonde.

At this point, Shelley decides to take pity on her and rather than pressing for an answer, she gives the brunette a significantly helpful hint.

"How about you start with the basics?" Shelley points at somewhere past Rachel's shoulder. "See that boy who wrote a cheesy crap on your cup last time?"

"Finn?"

Shelley's smile turns saucy. "I can't believe you remember his name. Anyway, if you have to choose between him or Quinn—"

"Okay, stop, I fail to see how this could help because clearly, I have no interest in Finn and he's probably just being nice when he wrote me that compliment."

"You sure about that? Give it a few more weeks and he'll be pouncing on you like a—"

"I don't think so."

"Wanna bet?"

"Careful Shells, I think your gambling addiction's starting to show." Rachel teases her with a chuckle. But the truth is she's not confident to win this one. She deliberately avoided eye contact with the boy when she ordered her usual soy latte.

"Hey Rach?" Shelley calls out suddenly and looks at the brunette in the eyes.

"Hmm?"

"Regarding your request, I'm not turning you down because I'm a selfish bitch, okay?" Shelley says and Rachel detects the sincerity in the dancer's voice. "I just think that you can do a lot with someone you don't know that well. Think of it as a two-dimensional thing, you can only unlock the secret of the third dimension if you understand how the other two works together."

"Since when did you get so smart?"

"I'm not a mindless bimbo, you know?" Shelley winks at her, and Rachel's briefly jealous at how the small action makes her so charming.

Rachel smiles at her dotingly. "I know."

She lowers her eyes, suddenly fascinated by the wooden table in front of her. She asked Shelley's permission to include her in her paper but all the while she couldn't help but think about how much she wants to write about Quinn instead.

_**xxxxx**_

There is one way to know; and it's driving Rachel crazy because the mechanics of it relies heavily on circumstance and playing her cards right.

She has—_needs_ to see Quinn again. She needs to feel the fever. She needs to confirm it by the sensations in her skin and the fluttering in her stomach. It makes her sick using people for her own motives, but it seems like her only bridge to Quinn are chance and _Brittany_.

_**xxxxx**_

Thirty minutes later, she hugs Shelley goodbye and walks her to the station. When she gets home, she finds Santana watching television, a bowl of popcorn lying heedlessly next to her.

"There's left-over pizza on my bed if you're hungry." Santana mumbles without taking her eyes off the glowing screen, seemingly enthralled by a gruesome scene from The Walking Dead. Rachel decides not to focus on the fact that Santana's eats in other locations of their apartment other than the kitchen or that there were kernel spills all over the floor.

"Is it vegan-friendly?"

"What am I, a goat?" comes Santana's irritated response.

"I'm taking that as a no. Thanks for the offer."

"You're welcome."

Rachel heaves a sigh, moves to stand in front of Santana, semi-blocking the Latina's view.

"I need to ask something about Quinn—"

"I told you for the fucking millionth time, I don't have her number. And why are you suddenly so interested in Q? Have you gone all Lebanese on her?"

There's no way to fight the blush that instantly tints her cheeks at Santana's crassness. For a minute, she supresses the urge to tell Santana that she's asking herself the same thing, but when the Latina brought it out in the open without preamble, it knocked all coherent thought off the brunette.

"Why do you seem so angry all the time?"

"Why aren't you?" Santana shoots back, crossing her arms in front of her.

"Don't you have a better way of saying 'no'?"

"No." Santana answers curtly, looking past Rachel. "Now move."

But Rachel remains passive, her fist clenching and unclenching as she maintains her ground. Santana cocks her head to one side and stares back at Rachel with dead eyes.

It's an unspoken challenge that neither of them is willing to give up.

"Look, I—" Rachel starts.

"You can't resist not talking, can you?" Santana cuts her off quickly with a smirk.

They say miracles happen every day, but Rachel's hasn't really experienced one in her life until she felt Santana plop on the floor to her side. The Latina retrieves something beneath the rug— the remote—and presses the off button with her thumb.

Then Santana looks up at her wearily and asks, "Have you tried Facebook?"

"I did…" Rachel answers and drops on the space beside her roommate. "Though I don't think she has one."

"It figures. By now you should be aware how much Q detests any kind of social medium."

Rachel hums in agreement. "So how come you never became friends with her?"

"Let me see," Santana answers and pretends to think for several seconds. "I had a feeling she doesn't like me so much."

"You did?"

"Don't act surprised, Berry. It's annoying on you. People generally don't like me, but that's fine because I hate everybody too."

Rachel smirks and rolls her eyes. She won't admit it aloud, but she's oddly growing fond of Santana's temperamental attitude.

"Does it—does it have anything to do with what happened between you and Brittany?"

Santana shakes her head, suddenly looking grave at the mention of her ex-girlfriend. "It had nothing to do with B. I'm not trying to ruin Quinn for you but if you think I'm bad, well, she's worse. She's the most apathetic person I've ever met, I don't even understand why Britt's friends with her. But then again, I remember that my girl—ex-girlfriends friends with almost everybody."

Rachel's quite after that, not sure how she should process what Santana just said. The Quinn Fabray she met during the orientation had been distant most of the time, but she never thought about Quinn that way—someone who's perfectly detached from the world. She wants to believe that she just needs to crack Quinn's barriers in order to see _Quinn_. Not NYU Quinn, but who she is outside all of this.

"You miss her don't you? Brittany?" Rachel asks, deciding that Santana's probably not the best person to dig some information on the enigmatic soccer player.

"I'm not the type who misses people, Berry." Santana hisses somewhat. But then her chin dips slightly and Rachel's almost not able to catch the sentence that followed. "But yeah, I do..." And in that moment, she feels sorry for Santana.

"Why not join the soccer team again? That way you'd be closer to Brittany again. She's a cheerleader for the Violets, right?"

"Right. But it's more complicated than it you think."

Rachel's forehead creases into a frown. "Enlighten me."

"They...hmmm, how do I say this," Santana murmurs to herself. "They don't want me back in."

Rachel gapes at her, finding the right reaction to that. It turns out there aren't any, because Santana's reclining on the sofa with a humourless smile. "I guess they all took Britt's side after we broke up. Let's just say, they kicked me out as punishment."

"But it's not their business to—" Rachel narrows her eyes. "What did you do?"

Santana shifts uncomfortably and looks away. "I should save that for another bed time story in the future."

"Alright," Rachel mutters quietly. "Last question. What made you do it?"

Santana sighs heavily and for the first time, Rachel sees regret in her eyes. "One day, B gave me this look, like she wanted to have my babies and things like marriage and old age. I was scared as fuck, okay? I didn't know how to respond to something as overwhelming as that."

Santana tilts her head and stares at the ceiling, and Rachel has a feeling that she's doing more than just that. She thinks about offering the Latina a napkin, but decides she needs to stop offering things people aren't asking her for.

"Anyway, about Q— I'm not surprised if you're suddenly gay for her— most girls are, especially when she starts kicking soccer balls like Beckham. You should see that girls legs. It's— gross, did I ramble about Q's gorgeous legs? I think I'm gonna throw up in my mouth."

Rachel bursts into a fit of laughter and her hand automatically migrates to her mouth to muffle the sound. Santana eventually joins her, giving in to Rachel's infectious laugh.

"I'll cut you a deal, Berry." Santana says after some time, getting up on her feet. "You keep Brittany close by any means and..."

"And...?"

"And I'll sign your stupid roommate agreement."

Rachel's face immediately breaks into a huge smile, her brown eyes sparkling. "Deal."

_**xxxxx**_

A hard knock on the door rouses the brunette's sleeping ears. Rachel checks the time on her cell and groggily wonders who might be visiting at this ungodly hour. She forces herself up, rubbing her eyes to get rid of the heaviness on her lids. The living room's pitch black, except for the thin ray of light seeping through the blinds, so Rachel maneuvers herself with extra care until she reaches the door.

Though right before her fingers close around the cool knob, the door swing open without preamble. Rachel's breath hitches, taking a step backwards.

"Quinn." There are a number of questions that immediately swirls inside her brain, but not one of them makes it pass her lips as it registers to Rachel that the blonde's suddenly moving forward, backing Rachel effectively against the wall.

Quinn, as usual, doesn't utter a syllable. But she talks with her body, hands finding purchase on either side of Rachel's hips, pulling the brunette tightly to her as she ghost her lips over Rachel's. Now and then, a pink tongue darts out to lick at her bottom lip, and each time, she feels herself sliding further into oblivion. She has no choice but to wrap her arms around Quinn's neck and tilt her head backwards when Quinn begins a slick path down the column of her throat, nipping and sucking with fervor.

"Fuck, Quinn, I—"Rachel whines, not knowing exactly what she wants to say. Quinn's hands travel upwards under her shirt, nails scraping lightly against her taut stomach. Rachel shivers—a wave of wetness rushing to her core. Is this really happening?

For a while she gets lost in the feeling of Quinn everywhere, and when she opens her eyes she doesn't immediate find what she's seeking. But then suddenly, she feels eager hands stroking her thighs and spreading them apart. She looks down and curses when dark eyes meet her own and god— it's enough to make her come right there and then. And then Quinn smiles that secret smile of hers and without breaking eye contact, she leans in to breathe in _Rachel _before her pink tongue darts out and—

Rachel recoils when the sunlight sharply hits her eyes. She's on the floor and there's dull throb at the back of her head. She doesn't recall half of her dream or toppling off the bed, but she feels it everywhere in her body— the traces of a sexy dream that leaves a person unbelievably frustrated in the morning. The tingle starts from her lips, traveling to her fingertips and down to her toes. Her skin's achingly sensitive, and there's a burning sensation at the pit of her stomach that has been left unsated.

She rarely comes across this biological urge—frankly due to her lack of interest in sex even after she experienced it with Jesse the first time—but there's only one way she could do every time it happens.

Rachel lets her hand drop to the waistband of her shorts. Her eyes shut tightly when she gets underneath the material, slowly traveling a bit lower until her fingers finally reach their heated destination. Rachel clamps her teeth down on the comforter, as she starts relieving herself of... this mess. Of Quinn. God, she's more than embarrassed to be doing this at seven in the morning, and knowing someone's sleeping in the next room.

But the second Rachel curls her fingers—_oh god_, she moans— all of her shame instantaneously flies out the window. When she's done, Rachel sucks in a long breath, willing to calm her body down. And as the cool morning air hits her fevered cheeks, she thinks—

Yeah, maybe she's into Quinn more than she cares to admit.


	7. Scratching the Surface

_AN: Soccer action and Faberry interaction. I really had fun writing this chapter and the next. All of you, thanks for reading and reviewing. Your comments are always dear and meaningful to me. _

_P.S – This goes to everyone, but most especially to the citizens of Tumblr: 50 Shades of Grey is everywhere. And oh my god, just… oh my god._

* * *

Chapter 7 – Scratching the Surface

She doesn't see Quinn for a week, and it occurs to Rachel that maybe they're just one of those few people who meet once, twice, thrice—but will never have a purpose to stay connected in the long run. Yet there's still a part of her who thinks she can always choose to go to great lengths to win Quinn's friendship. Maybe more. But the fact that Quinn had said nothing when Rachel mentioned if she'd see her again sometime, just makes her more certain that she has probably driven Quinn up the wall.

So she goes back to not thinking about Quinn, or at least helping herself not to. Every night after dinner, she climbs to her bed, and reads the few remaining pages of 'A Solitude of Prime Numbers' and tries not to keep comparing Quinn to one of the novel's main protagonist.

A while later, Rachel finishes the book with a look of indifference. A cup of warm milk rests on her nightstand, as well as the notebook she uses to draft her paper for her Theories of Personality class, and hesitation gripping her heart. It's not a question of who anymore—she's already set on writing about Quinn Fabray—it now revolves on whether or not she can pull through without being guilty of borrowing the details of someone else's life without their permission.

But if she's right, and they're only going to meet once, twice or three times—then it doesn't really matter, does it?

_**xxxxx**_

"*The more you say, the less people remember," Rachel reads aloud today's Motivational text from her dads, which in her opinion, doesn't feel motivating at all. She replies to their text with the usual "Thanks" and "Love you", briefly wondering if they filter these quotations to suit their daughter's personality and work as some form of reprimand.

In the end though, it only worries her to think how much truth relies in the statement. After all, she's more than aware of how much she is fond of words—perhaps too fond for most.

_**xxxxx**_

The quarterly general assembly of Middle C incoming recruits and regular attendees has apparently chosen a rather secluded conference room. It took Rachel about five minutes of asking around—Brittany won't answer her calls—before she started doubting if she's got the dates in her calendar mixed up. She hasn't been able to concentrate on anything these days. Damn those stupid dreams; she can do better without waking up on the floor with a prominent swell on her forehead more than the usual.

Rachel had almost lost her willingness to attend the meeting, when she suddenly came across a faint tune coming from down the hallway. And if there's one thing that will never fail to catch her attention it's a horribly off-key rendition of Barbra Streisand's "Happy Days Are Here Again".

And that's how she ended up sitting in the front— newbies get the 'privilege' of being the center of attention— and gripping the edges of her chair as she listens to another student sing the final lines of a Miley Cyrus song.

"That was an incredible performance, Casey, you've definitely improved. Thank you!" Brittany exclaims with a hearty smile, clapping and hauling everyone in the room to do the same. The corners of Rachel's lips curl up in a lenient smile, thinking if all of them had just seen the same performance. It's acceptable, but far from "great". Rachel knew what a great performance is like. She considers organizing a Juilliard tour once she becomes an established member. And since she's a former student, it's not hard to hack free tickets for everyone to discover what a "great" performance truly is.

But she's taking things one step at a time, and right now as she thinks of a song to go with her introduction, she tries to forget Santana's face while the Latina made a crafty remark on her disheveled appearance this morning. "You have no reason to be ashamed", Santana had said with a wink. "I do it all the time."

There had been many ways she could have answered that, but all that came out of Rachel is a horrible blush that spread down to her neck.

"Rachel, are you ready?"

Rachel looks up to find Brittany and everyone else eyeing her with much excitement. There's a good chance that she have been introduced to them beforehand, seeing she might be the only one in the room with credible experience in singing.

"I am," Rachel answers. She's never _un_prepared for anything that involves knocking off an impromptu performance of 'On My Own'.

She goes to stand on the wooden platform and with confidence, lifts her chin. "My name is Rachel Berry, and it's a pleasure to meet all of you today. I picked a song which I believe is nearly in everyone's vernacular knowledge of Broadway tunes."

Almost immediately, her eyes automatically close as soon as she hits the first lines. 'On my own, pretending he's beside me…'

Her diaphragm expands and deflates in time as if it has a life of its own. It's quiet— except for the slow exhilaration of air coming from mouths agape in awe. But it can also be that little bubble she enters every time her voice takes flight, because it's during this moment when she feels separated from others, so that there's only herself and her song that moves, and exists and breathes.

There's not a thing in this world that can make her feel more alive than this.

Rachel finishes her song with a stunning smile and her eyes flutter open to stunned faces that reminds of her of the last time she performed at Nationals. There are still no words to describe that experience, and perhaps there will never be. Brittany breaks the spell with a slow clap, which others soon follow with a noise of approval. Rachel proudly takes it all in and returns to her seat, heart brimming with satisfaction.

"Oh my god, Rachel. That was…" Brittany's voice trails off weakly, as her blue eyes continue to glimmer with excitement. In a flash, Rachel finds herself showered with compliments:

"Astonishing!"

"Why aren't you famous?"

"Britt, we need to fire that Marilyn Manson dwarf and replace him with Rachel."

"You should be on Broadway."

Rachel keeps a smile wave after wave, and ignores some slightly inappropriate comments that should earn a slap at the least. She makes eye contact with Brittany—who mouths a 'thank you'— and the gratitude reflected in those blue eyes are enough to compensate for that short amount of time wherein Rachel felt close, yet also too far from home.

_**xxxxx**_

"Hey, not so fast," Brittany grabs her wrist and gently tugs Rachel away from the door. "Don't you want to come and say hi to Quinn?"

_More than anything._ But at the same time, she can't seem to shake off the image of Quinn from all those times she woke up on the floor.

"Cheerleading practice at one," Brittany explains after Rachel's lack of response. "We're sharing the field with the soccer team."

"Would Quinn want to see me?" Rachel's voice slightly falters. She checks the time on her wrist watch—_1:30_ p.m.—and frowns at Brittany.

"Duh, of course. Why wouldn't she?" Brittany replies without a second thought.

Rachel decides not to answer that. She wishes Brittany isn't so enthusiastic about the idea of bringing her along. Just this morning, she had felt with finality that there wasn't any point in seeing Quinn again. She knows the early signs of a stupid crush that's unlikely to go anywhere, and she knew better than to feed it with opportunities such as this.

"I, uh— give me two minutes to think about it."

Brittany raises her eyebrows but says, "Take all the time you need. I'm always late for cheer practice anyway."

_**xxxxx**_

The first thing Rachel notices when she meets Brittany's squad is the distinct way they braid their hair into a very attractive pony, looking like someone out of 18th century England. Most of them have blonde hair the same length as Brittany's, and it's hard not to stare at their gorgeous smiles that should easily win them Miss America.

"Hey girls, I'd like you all to meet my friend, Rachel. She's Middle C's newest recruit and also Santana's roommate." Rachel doesn't miss the way their foreheads crease a little at the mention of Santana and she now understands fully what Santana meant when she said couldn't return to the team. There's an unspoken alliance between the players and the cheerleading team and Rachel herself wouldn't dare stand less than ten meters away from a hot-headed Barbie mob.

And yet, the way Brittany says Santana's name— Rachel can't detect an ounce of anger or bitterness in it.

"Wow, you're all so pretty..." Rachel blurts out without thinking and clutches her bag closer to her chest, suddenly feeling smaller. They laugh in chorus and even that sounds exactly how they look.

"I'm sorry you're living with Santana. That bitch." A tall redhead chisels in.

"Jessica." Brittany says sternly, shaking her head in disdain.

"It's alright, San already filled me in. I think I understand well how everyone feels about her."

Brittany shrugs warily. "I see," she deadpans, not meeting Rachel's gaze. "Listen, I really have to change. I'm going to leave you my bag of Cheetos and my PSP to keep you busy."

"O-Okay. I'll just be here. Or somewhere…" Rachel mutters distractedly, remembering what she came here for.

"Oh, and Rachel," Brittany yells over her shoulder, pointing towards the far-end of the field. "Quinn's over there."

Rachel nods and starts making her way towards the sidelines, choosing a spot where she can watch the squad and the Violets at the same time. Her eyes automatically searches for a short-haired blonde with a slender built and it takes a while before she spots the one she's looking for. She's wearing a jersey of rich violet color and the number eleven plastered across the back.

Despite the distance, Rachel can still see clearly as Quinn tackles an opponent with a look on her face that sends a thrill down Rachel's spine. The other girl dodges a second too late—causing her to lose her footing— and Quinn pivots her ankle expertly to drive the ball towards the opposite goal.

And god, the sight of Quinn looking like a rag doll drenched in sweat shouldn't turn her on but it does. Because aside from the obvious truth that Quinn's incredibly beautiful, there is something valuable in seeing someone in their element. She never knew that Quinn's body could be capable of this. And the blonde might not be aware, but she's communicating to the brunette more than she ever did in the last two times they got together.

It's impossible to take her gaze off of Quinn as the blonde charges for a goal, her movements becoming increasingly rough but still graceful at the same time. "Fabray!" One of them yells frantically. Rachel eyes stay faithfully glued to Quinn. "I'm open, Fabray!"

Either Quinn didn't hear her teammate or dead on ignored her, because she's showing no signs of stopping. She sprints towards the goal and maneuvers the ball away from the defenders, before stopping abruptly to lock her left heel. In the near future, Rachel will learn that this is the posture Quinn makes every time before executing "the kick".

"The Kick" pertains to that nail-biting event in which a player strikes the ball full-force, for the purpose of aiming a goal. And it's unbelievably attractive when Quinn does it.

She hears more than sees Quinn hit the ball hard with her left foot. Rachel's breath hitches, as she follows it fly straight between the posts and—

– And into the possession of the keeper. Rachel's eyes quickly snap back to Quinn just in time to see the look of distaste on her lips. But other than that, she merely jogs back to the other side with a mild expression. A smile creeps its way to Rachel's lips. She likes that it's a visage of Quinn she's thoroughly familiar with.

_**xxxxx**_

She had waited for everyone to disperse and leave the vicinity before she approached the locker room, reciting a line in her head she intends to start with. She feels ready and not quite, but as she turns around the corner, she's utterly unable to come up with a clever line.

"Quinn?"

Seeing her up-close in entirely different from watching her several meters away. Quinn's just so much vivid this way, that Rachel's dreams are suddenly lurking behind her and making her stomach twist because if she were in Quinn's position and aware that the person standing in front of her are having inappropriate visions of her that didn't involve clothes, well...

That's a good reason to break eye contact and run for the nearest exit.

But Quinn had claimed to be different—a manifesto that other would deem pretentious— and that only drives Rachel to think of Quinn's reaction if she casually revealed what kind of dream she's been having of her for the past several nights. Except, Rachel's not confident she can handle a situation like that.

The blonde's on her knees, sorting out her sportsbag with utmost concentration. And it's odd how watching Quinn—still faintly sweaty and worn out from her recent physical activities— is causing her heart to beat in uneven intervals. But that's the permanent principle of attraction: there's nothing a person can do to see or feel otherwise.

"Hey, Rachel," Quinn drawls out slowly over a towel caught in her arm. "What brings you here?"

"Brittany dragged me, literally. I went to meet the rest of the Middle C org members this morning, which was rather more pleasant that I expected." Rachel moves across the room and runs her fingers along the edges of Quinn's locker, wrinkling her nose at the distinct smell of paint on metal.

"Okay, but what brings you here?" Her eyes are fixed at the top of Quinn's head, but there's no denying the smile Quinn's voice when she spoke. Rachel ducks her head even though the blonde can see her, vaguely realizing that she often fails to answer Quinn's questions right during the first try.

"I-I wanted to see you." Rachel breathes deeply as soon as the words left her mouth.

Quinn stiffens for a millisecond— a reflex of some sort that Rachel wouldn't even notice if her eyes weren't raking all over the blonde's back. Quinn hums quietly, as Rachel's thumb keeps circling a tiny hole on the metal plate to distract herself.

"Well, what can I do for you, Ms. Berry?" Quinn finally responds, zipping up her bag. She looks at Rachel expectantly but in a kind manner. Her eyes look tired.

"Nothing, Ms. Fabray," Rachel answers evenly. "I came here because I came here."

Quinn smiles at that, eyes finding the ground again. "How's life, then?"

Rachel halts her movements and walks around to face Quinn. She can't help the confusion that settles over her features as it dawns to her that Quinn's asking her a question for a change, initiating an actual conversation that didn't involve too much inappropriate stares coming from the blonde. In all their previous interactions, Quinn had merely followed whatever direction Rachel set for them. It's…confusing, but most of all _finicky_—it makes Rachel suddenly conscious of her actions and how she regards Quinn.

Most people would give a response along the lines of 'fine', but Rachel takes the time to actually reflect on her life and what it means to her. Quinn must've sensed this because she pushes her things aside and reclines against the bench, shifting most of her weight on her elbows.

"I'm doing okay… in some areas." Rachel says with a shaky breath, there are a number of things she wants to share with Quinn, but she also remembers today's Motivational text of saying more and being remembered less. "Quinn, are we okay?"

"Why wouldn't we be?" Quinn asks, and Rachel curses the way her body reacts to its low, husky quality.

"Because the last time we talked, I asked you a question and you basically ordered me away?"

"Ah," Quinn says and runs a hand through her slick hair. She considers Rachel for a tense moment before continuing, "I didn't mean to, but I have curfew on Mondays."

Rachel decides not to believe that. But she's also not in the position to warrant truth or feel disappointed at being lied to.

"In any case, I want to apologize for assuming that you were offended by my… nosiness on the romantic aspect of your life…" Rachel says, shuffling her feet.

Quinn nods and manages to change the topic by asking Rachel more about the areas of her life that weren't okay.

"It's a long story," says Rachel. "And a large portion of it doesn't have anything to do with me."

Quinn hums in response and it annoys Rachel how Quinn's adamantly respectful not to prod further on the subject.

"Do you have to leave right away?"

Quinn shakes her head. "Not really."

"I'm picking up some books at Barnes and Nobles. Maybe you'd like to come with me?"

"Maybe…" Quinn replies softly, getting to her feet. "I assume you're an avid reader."

"Correct. You read often too?" Rachel asks with a hopeful smile.

"No," Quinn replies curtly, before looking at Rachel in the eye. "But I want to give it a try."

Her insides melt into each other, and something beneath her chest begins expanding, and expanding—

"So, Barnes and Nobles?"

Quinn smiles lopsidedly. "I'll drive you."

* * *

*quoted from François Fénelon.


	8. Never Take Friendship Personal

AN: I can't believe you guys, thanks for all the alerts, faves and reviews. They keep me going.

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Chapter 8 - Never Take Friendship Personal

"So which one of these have you read already?" Quinn asks, scanning a shelf under the section where Rachel had pulled her to as soon as they stepped inside the bookstore. Quinn's eyes hadn't return to her since. Rachel points at a number of titles on display, skipping a few ones that didn't leave an impression on her so she could narrow it down to a few choices as not to appear too showy.

"...And you have a favorite out of those thirteen?"

Rachel watches as Quinn trace a slender finger along the edge of a random, yellow book.

"You're touching it," Rachel answers with a smile that hasn't left her lips since the second she climbed inside Quinn's car. She glances at Quinn and thinks about how coming to her second favorite place on Earth is ten times better with someone she's more than excited to share things with. Even if that someone's only wearing gym shorts and a worn-out top that advertises a love for bacon. Generally, it's something that should turn her off in an instant. Yet there's nothing else in Rachel's mind other than a curiosity in whether or not Quinn shares the same sentiment with her shirt or simply wearing it just because.

Quinn takes the book in her hand and checks the back cover, possibly to read the synopsis which she won't surely find. "Not Hunger Games?" Quinn finally looks at her, a glint of playfulness in her eyes that leaves Rachel wanting to sweep those stray strands of blonde hair in front of Quinn's eyes.

Rachel releases a shaky breath. She's suddenly nervous, and it's quite unfair because Quinn hasn't even done anything yet other than stand an arm's length away from Rachel. "It's _The_ Hunger Games. And while I occasionally indulge in young adult fiction, there are only quite a few titles that have managed to make it to my list."

"Such as 'Hope for the Flowers'…" Quinn says slowly without looking up. She skims through the pages with interest, randomly smiling at the illustrations of a striped and a yellow caterpillar.

"It's about change and its inevitable nature." Rachel explains, careful not to give it all away. "My daddy Leroy used to read it to me every night until third grade." Quinn hums softly and places the book back to its original place. Hazel eyes stays on brown ones longer than they're supposed to Rachel takes a tentative step closer to Quinn.

"Hey." Quinn mumbles, almost inaudibly.

"Hey..."

They're practically in each other's space. All Rachel needs is some accident that would push her up on her toes and press up against that warm body hovering a few inches from hers.

"So," Quinn starts, snapping Rachel out of her reverie. "You were supposed to pick up some stuff, right?"

Rachel gasps. "I completely forgot!"

"Go on," Quinn says. She shifts her attention towards a pile of books that are currently being sold half its regular price. "I'll just... look around."

Rachel nods and proceeds to grab a cart from the entrance. She mindlessly pushes it around, lingering a safe distance from Quinn. Rachel struggles not to look her way every five seconds, feeling as if Quinn would just suddenly vanish into thin air if she doesn't. She's not sure how long this will last until Quinn decides the day is over and they go home without having the certainty of seeing each other again. After today, she has to know if they could be friends at least. Because coming to Barnes and Nobles is a more amazing when it's with Quinn. Because she has a lot of books in mind that she thinks Quinn will appreciate, or even love. Because she wants to know if Quinn has passion for music and if it happens that she does, Rachel wants to know if she dances to them sometimes, or merely closes her eyes to get lost in them the way she does.

There's a point in which you realize that you can no longer refuse the chance to have someone be a regular part of your life. Rachel's gone pass this point, and if she can't think of a way to ask Quinn's number by the end of the day, it's just going to get worse.

Rachel squeezes her eyes shut and forces herself to focus on the task at hand: book shopping. She forwent bringing her list with her when she left the hotel that morning, but she hadn't counted on seeing Quinn today and couldn't think of a better invitation than a visit to this place. Rachel thought the blonde would appreciate a quiet setting given her reticent demeanor. Judging from the way Quinn's smiling to herself as she reads a page from a John Green novel, Rachel's sure she's just been proven right.

Rachel wheels around the Young Adults Section and picks up four titles— not even half of what she had on her list, but she just can't wait to go back to Quinn.

When she reaches the counter, she's surprised to find that Quinn's already beaten her to it.

"You made a purchase?"

Quinn rubs the back of her head, further messing up her hair. "Yeah..."

"Of what?"

"That book about caterpillars?"

Rachel gapes at her in disbelief, unsure of what to say. "M-My favorite book?"

Quinn grins. "I did remember you saying that..."

"Quinn that's..." She's loss for words, not really expecting Quinn to take an interest so much that she'd buy her own copy.

"That's really…" Rachel tucks a loose strand behind a crimson ear. "Awesome." God, that's got to be the thoughtless, lamest thing to come out of her mouth.

"You think so?" Quinn asks rhetorically.

"I do. B-But I actually have a different book in mind for you to borrow, if you're still willing to give it a try."

"The more the merrier, right?" Quinn says, searching Rachel's face like a map of treasure. "Just keep them coming."

Oh, she certainly will.

_**xxxxx**_

When she woke up that morning, it never crossed her mind that she'd be bringing Quinn to her apartment at the end of the day. Upon arriving, Rachel rings the buzzer first just in case Santana's home. Despite getting along better recently, she's a bit worried to have both girls in the same room. Honestly, she's more concerned of how Quinn might react when she sees Santana. Rachel hasn't mentioned to her that she's rooming with Santana Lopez, and from hearing her roommate's side of the story, Rachel already assumes Quinn's not exactly fond of her former teammate.

But as Quinn moves to the floor to sit Indian style, asking if she keeps any pet around… it's quite hard to assume that. In fact, it's hard to assume anything when it comes to Quinn.

"Unfortunately, we're not allowed to keep pets in here."

"Not even hamsters?"

"Now that you mentioned it, I think it's quite unfair that they keep rats and pests all around the building but not the cute ones that are entirely harmless." Rachel answers. She trudges to her bedroom and gets out of her clothes while looking for 'A Solitude of Prime Numbers'. She didn't bother closing the door trusting her visitor to stay on her place although, she wouldn't mind if Quinn suddenly walks in. Rachel works hard every day to keep herself in perfect shape.

"You have pets at home, Quinn?" Rachel yells, keeping the topic afloat.

"I... I have cat." Quinn answers.

"Really? What kind?" _Where's that goddamn book? Rachel_ muses, as she rummages her closet and a cardboard box that still contains an eighth of her belongings.

"An orange tabby."

She waits for Quinn to say something more about this Orange Tabby which Rachel kind of envies right now, but after a long pause she finally gets that Quinn's done talking. "Okay. So you own an orange tabby—"

"Actually, I don't claim ownership over a living creature." Quinn looks over her shoulder just as Rachel stumbles out of her room, cursing at a sharp object that her right foot has apparently landed on.

"Oh, then allow me to rephrase my sentence: a cat lives with you." Rachel answers, looking up at Quinn with a small grimace.

Quinn sniffles. "That's more like it."

"How did it come to live with you?"

Quinn rubs her ear. "Via my sister's boyfriend. Anyway, that book you were telling me about…"

A sister and a cat. Perhaps if she learns how to play her cards more effectively, Quinn will let on more than things she can learn from a dossier.

"I can't find it anywhere." Rachel mumbles in reply.

"Alright…" Quinn utters lengthily, not even bothering to appear disappointed. "Should I help you look for it?"

Rachel shakes her head, wringing her hands. "No, I'm sure it'll show up later."

Quinn's eyes tapers in confusion, wondering if Rachel just threw in a punch line or if indeed, somewhere in the middle of her visit, it'll magically appear right in front of her.

Rachel crawls towards the sofa to lie on her stomach. She turns her head just a bit so she's facing Quinn horizontally. Despite the angle, Rachel can't help but notice how the blonde's just as beautiful. "In the meantime, would you like to eat anything? I'm vegan, but roommate isn't so I can make you a sandwich if you like."

"Don't worry about me, Rachel." Quinn says, her eyes boring with magnitude through Rachel's again. It's so natural to get lost in them, to let the connection stream for as long as she can manage to, but there's that question tapping on her head and asking her what it all means.

Why does Quinn look at her like that? Does she look at other people that same way or was it only for her?

Maybe she should just ask her, right?

"Quinn…"

"Rachel…"

"Why…" Rachel closes her eyes and swallows hard— the question she intends to ask, melting on her tongue. "What's your cat's name?"

She's not brave enough to do it. She's afraid Quinn won't meet her half way or she'll ruin whatever limbo they're presently in. Rachel can't afford to make another mistake—one that would send Quinn away.

"Something Japanese," is all Quinn answers with.

"Japanese…? Oh! I think you mentioned during the orientation that you're taking up linguistics."

"Mhm…" Quinn nods, appearing slightly startled from Rachel's apparent interest on keeping the limelight above her head.

"What's it like?"

"You study language." Quinn mutters in that fashionable disinterested manner that just pushes Rachel to figure out why Quinn is this way. Why everything that comes out of her mouth is evasive and not at all self-indulgent.

"Yeah, but," Rachel sighs, feeling her chest tighten in anxiety. "I'm not so much familiar with how you… anatomize language. I only took Spanish back in high school."

"Semantics, Phonological Analysis, Grammatical Analysis…" Quinn trails away to observe Rachel's reaction. Her lips automatically curl into a smile at noticing Rachel's facial expression shift from amusement to being utterly clueless. Rachel on the other hand, is already thinking of what kind of career awaits the blonde after graduation, until it occurs to her that there's a possibility Quinn's coasting through college just like her. After seeing Quinn during soccer practice, Rachel just can't imagine her doing anything else. Quinn looks as if she's born to play the sport, just as Rachel's certain she's born to sing.

"It's not the most exciting in the world." Quinn comments.

Brown eyes snap to hazel ones. "What is?"

"My field of study," Quinn answers smoothly. "It's okay if you don't think it's too engrossing."

"I think it's rather too sophisticated for my taste." Rachel says.

Quinn gives her a wary smile. "Fine."

"Please don't dismiss it as if you don't believe every word I say."

Quinn looks grim for a moment, before turning her head away from Rachel. "Fine, I believe you."

"Do you?" Rachel returns, knitting her brows together. When Quinn doesn't respond, or even take a breath at the least, Rachel takes this as her cue to apologize. "Quinn, I-I didn't mean to be abrasive. I just wanted to…" Rachel bites her lip before she can say anything more that might worsen the situation.

"Okay."

"I'm really sorry." Rachel mumbles, dropping her head.

"Okay, Rachel." Rachel hears the gentleness in Quinn's voice.

"I don't… I'm not a good with people." Quinn admits with a sigh.

"You are. Sometimes I don't get what you're thinking but that's normal because it's not like there's an invisible bridge to make people understand one another without difficulty."

"Rachel," Quinn shifts away from the brunette. "More than half of the time, I'm not…" Quinn struggles to grasp her own thoughts, but decides to give up as soon as the door hisses open. There's a bout a dozen ways in which Quinn could've continued that sentence.

"I can't believe none of you even bothered to leave a sock on the doorknob." Santana smirks mischievously when Rachel levels her with a look. Quinn's gaze doesn't waver, as if she didn't notice Santana's arrival.

Santana saunters through the kitchen and grabs a bottle of beer from the fridge.

"Fabray," Santana drawls from behind her drink. "Never dreamed of having you over my crib."

"Hi," Quinn answers and finally looks at Santana with bland attitude.

"Santana, don't you have somewhere to go? It's only 4:30." Rachel cuts in.

"Nah. I think I want to be a home buddy from now on. All the partying gets stupid at some point.

Rachel shoots her a glare while Quinn remains silent. "While I'm glad to hear that you're finally considering to _improve_ your lifestyle, I have a visitor—"

"Jesus, am I not allowed in here? I've gots no problem if you're ready to jump each other's bone—"

"I'll see you, Rachel." Quinn promptly rises to her feet, heading for the exit.

"Quinn, wait, the book—"

Quinn's already at the door. She turns her head marginally and Rachel can see more shadow than flesh.

"It can wait."

Rachel blinks and then Quinn is gone. She clenches her fist tightly and whips around.

"I can't believe you!"

Santana ignores her, climbing one of the high stools. "I'm impressed, Berry. In less than a month, you already had gotten Q to see your bedroom. Should I leave the apartment tomorrow night, just in case?"

Rachel rolls her eyes—an action she's perfected in the short time she's been living with Santana. "She came over to borrow a book and not at all what you're thinking."

"Yeah, she went to "borrow a book" alright. Is that what they're calling it now? Sounds dorky to me."

"If there's one thing you're tremendously good at, it's making every simple thing sound so tawdry."

Santana lifts an eyebrow. "Is that you're way of complimenting my badass-ness?"

Rachel pinches the bridge of her nose, before lifting her head to glare at Santana. "I should be furious at you. But I just feel so—"

"Sexually frustrated?"

"—Congested!"

Santana scowls in disgust, imagining all sorts of images to accompany that word. "Ew, Berry, not the adjective I was expecting."

"Quit trying to be funny, and listen to me!"

Santana clucks her tongue in victory. "Dios mio! Calm yourself, Berry. I'm just teasing you."

"Clearly, that's all you ever do."

Santana clears her throat, and it actually takes quite a few takes before it clears up. It's the beer, or the urge to choke on Rachel's lack of humor on the whole thing.

"You know, sudden friendships are kind of tricky, Rach." Santana offers as some form of consolation.

"What do you mean?"

"It's... There's obviously something behind it. You're trying to be Quinn's friend because you feel something for her, don't you?"

"Of course. I've always liked the idea of falling in love with a friend, then—"

"But see, when you put aside those feelings, do you actually have any idea how to be friends with her? I'm saying that you're actions are driven right now, but what if in the end, you get disappointed?"

"You're thinking way too much into our—"

"And obviously, you're not thinking at all."

Rachel seems taken aback, not anymore caring if this conversation's taking an ugly turn.

"You have no basis, nor any right to say that about me."

Santana looks mildly stung. "Fuck this, Berry. I'm sorry if the truth's whipping your ass. I'm just looking out for you."

"You don't need to. I'm perfectly capable of handling things on my own."

"Yeah, you do."

Rachel brushes past her, heading outside. "I get that you hate Quinn but stay out of this."

"I never said I hate that bitch—" Her retort gets muffled by the click of the door. Santana grits her teeth. "Gladly."


	9. Learning History

**AN:** Rachel learns more about Quinn and Brittany. I apologize for the longest time I didn't post a new chapter. Work's been crazy since my last update. Hope you understand. My source of bread and butter comes first.

* * *

_"The Curious Case of Quinn Fabray"_

Rachel leans back on the chair, fist clenching and unclenching around a pen covered with juvenile pictures of cats as she stares blankly at her elegant writing.

_Very original, Rae_, she murmurs to herself and after some thought, crosses out the words with a heavy hand. As far as she knows, she might be the only one who thinks Quinn is extravagantly different. She dulls a drawl breath and settles back on her seat. Being stuck in a paper due in a few hours isn't exactly her. She finishes tasks before most people could even think of starting them and never dealt with late submissions and the straining weight of being under pressure. She's that Rachel Berry: always focused, always a star, on top of the world...

Yet as she stares at the pen in her hand, she feels derailed but most of all pathetic for thinking about how a tiny drawing of cats easily reminds her of Quinn Fabray. She never thought she'd be jealous of a cat, or anything that couldn't sing for that matter. But right in the second, she kind of wants to be a cat and lurk somewhere in Quinn's apartment and just observe the girl.

As soon as she realizes just how creepy that is, Rachel pushes the idea aside. _Damn it, focus on the paper._

Rachel straightens up and dives right back in. Dancing around the title won't get her anywhere, however, writing the first sentence might jump-start her brain into something she can work with.

_Quinn Fabray: even her name has a certain unique ring to it, wouldn't you agree? _

Rachel lifts her pen, hesitant. She wonders just how many Quinns are probably walking around New York at this very moment, eating their breakfast or watching someone eat their breakfast. She allows herself to believe the possibility of one mulling over the same thing. That there's a Quinn wondering how many Rachels are out there and how not one of them is exactly the same as Rachel Berry.

Rachel scrutinizes her intro, brows furrowed in deep concentration. It's probably not the best choice to start her article with a question, but she decides to leave it there.

_There are numerous ways in which Quinn differs from the common person. This is, of course, taking into consideration the place she lives in (New York City), and the kind of people she associates with every day (College of Arts and Sciences Students from New York University). _

But who are they, really? It's hard not to borrow stereotypical ideas when the only friend of Quinn she knows is Brittany.

And— if it counts— herself.

Rachel sighs. She doesn't even know if she knows anything to begin with. There's soccer, and a cat, and her occasional love for pomegranate-flavored Snapple.

And of course, her feelings for said girl that should complicate her reception of Quinn's words and actions.

"Rachel!"

Almost immediately, they hear a sharp, hushing sound behind them. Brittany blatantly ignores him with cheeky smile.

"Brittany," Rachel blinks at her in surprise. "What are you doing here?"

"Duh," Brittany answers, holding up one of the books in her arms. "Studying."

"You have an exam coming up?"

Brittany shakes her head. "I'm just one of those people who need to make an extra effort or else, I'll fail everything…"

"You can't be serious."

"I'm good at one thing, Rachel: Cheerleading."

Rachel turns back to her paper, feeling slightly guilty and hesitant to accept Brittany's claim about her own abilities. She sets her pen down.

"I think you're wrong. You can be good at anything if you want to. It's a matter of perspective and determination, and not giving up just because you've been told once that you can't do it."

Brittany stares at her with wide blue eyes, the corner of her lips curving upwards ever so slightly. "I really like you."

Rachel reflects back a smile and ducks her head shyly. "It's mutual. I only have a few friends here, and it's really nice that you're one of them."

"Quinn's your friend too, right?"

Rachel hesitates for a moment. She enjoys the soccer player's company more than anyone, but she's not really sure. Did Quinn tell Brittany they were friends?

"I guess."

"Quinn's not very fond of people… I think she prefers cats over human beings most of the time."

Rachel chuckles a little. Of course she does.

Brittany continues, "But I love that she loves cats. It's like—the most important aspect of our friendship since I have Lord Tubbington back at home."

"You've known Quinn for how long?" Rachel asks all of a sudden.

"Since forever."

Well, in that case… "Can you—can you tell me more about her?"

"I get that a lot from Quinn's friends." Brittany says with a knowing grin.

"Does she always do that? Stare at someone for a long time like it's a _normal _behaviour that surely won't make people feel trapped?"

Brittany cocks her head to one side. "Quinn makes you feel trapped?"

Rachel smirks, thinking how funny that Brittany—who isn't at all, confident with her academics— is easily picking up the clues like a professional therapist.

Rachel breathes deeply through her mouth, figuring it's best to be honest. "Sometimes she does…"

"That's probably a side effect of Joe."

Rachel perks up in her seat. Who?

"Joe?"

"Quinn's ex-boyfriend. They went out for five years, before I heard from someone else that they broke up."

Out of nowhere, Rachel hears something crack—probably the hope that somehow, Quinn's into girls and she's not imagining the way Quinn looks at her, like she's trying to get under Rachel's skin.

As if she hasn't already.

"Quinn didn't tell you?" Rachel says, although she isn't at all surprised that Quinn had kept the information to herself. It's just confusing her that even Brittany didn't find out first hand.

"No. But I never asked her about it. I just assumed things were okay. They both look perfect all the time, I thought they're going to outlast _my_ parents."

"What happened?"

The cheerleader scratches the back of her head, before running her long fingers through the length of her blonde hair. When Rachel was younger, she used to envy people who were born with yellow hair, thinking she'd be way up in the social ladder had she been born with blonde hair and an adequately sized nose. That is, of course, until she was introduced to Barbra Streisand.

"Quinn refused to talk about it."

"That's… understandable. But where is he now?" _Far, far away_, Rachel hopes.

Brittany blows her bangs away from her blue eyes. "Who knows? Maybe he became Jesus or something. Quinn and Joe were in The God Squad back in high school."

"I— What's 'The God Squad'?"

"Don't have any idea, really. But I suppose that's why Quinn meditates, like, a lot."

A thought abruptly clicks into place. "You went to high school together."

"With Santana, too."

And then without warning, Brittany asks in a steady voice, "Are you gay?"

Rachel's entire frame freezes, her tongue feeling like lead in her mouth. "What?"

Brittany stares back at her with childlike uncertainty. "That wasn't a rhetorical question…"

"Yeah, I'm sure, it's just… you really caught me offhanded." Rachel answers. Only when she feels her skin return to its normal temperature that she timidly gaze at the cheerleader sitting across her. Her breathing slows as soon as she finds Brittany inspecting her well-manicured nails with a bored expression.

"Is that a yes or a no?" Brittany says without looking up.

"I've only ever dated guys."

Brittany drops her hand on the table, smiling coyly. "That doesn't answer the question, Rachel. It's like the time I asked Santana if she likes me and told me that sex isn't dating."

Rachel opens her mouth and thinks of a clever retort but to no avail. She looks down, and then back at the cheerleader.

"I'm taking that as a yes."

"How come you can casually throw in Santana's name in a conversation as if you have no ugly history together?"

"We don't."

"Don't what?"

"Have an 'ugly' history," Brittany says. "I'm sure we're both pretty hot."

"That isn't what I meant… Ok, I guess you're right about that part, but doesn't it at least make cringe internally?"

Brittany shakes her head.

"Shouldn't that tell you anything? That maybe you still have feelings for Santana because I know she still—" Rachel bites her upper lip to keep herself from revealing more. Santana didn't have to tell Rachel upfront that she's still cares for Brittany. She never needed to tell Rachel since that time she slipped and cowered like a beaten animal.

"I didn't break up with Santana, Rachel." Brittany says wryly. "She broke up with me."

"Oh."

Brittany smiles widely at her. "I get that reaction a lot."

"What happened? Santana never delved into detail so I just came up with my own conclusions… God, I'm sorry."

"Slow down, okay?"

"You like Quinn." Brittany states with certitude. And there's no denying the sudden blush that taints her cheeks almost instantly.

Brittany thrusts her fist into the air. "I knew it!"

"Please don't tell Quinn!", comes Rachel's quick, breathless reply.

Brittany frowns. "Why not?"

"Because I'm not even sure just how much of it is true." Rachel answers, chewing her nail. "And I don't even know if Quinn likes girls too."

"Hmmm… Quinn never told me anything about the stuff she likes."

"I don't understand, you've been friends for a long time now…"

"Quinn's like a math problem." Brittany shrugs, and reaches for one of the books she borrowed as if remembering why she came here in the first place.

"So, what was she like in—"

"Shhh! I have to study now, Rachel."

Rachel smiles inwardly, knowing that if someone else were to interrupt her like that, she'd probably be offended enough to rant on and on until they beg her to stop.

_**xxxxx**_

She misses the deadline.

She's asked to stay after class and tries to avoid steely eyes behind enormous glasses, until her name's called in an unmeasured tone. Never in her life, had she faced the consequences of _failure _in something as minimal as this. Rachel swallows hard and stands steadily on her feet. She crosses the short distance between her seat and that table of judgment raised proudly on that platform.

For the longest period, she forgot to breathe.

"Let me see your progress… or lack thereof."

Rachel hurriedly reaches inside her bag and retrieves a slightly crumpled piece of paper. A wrinkled hand grabs it from her shaking hand.

"Ms. Corbell, you have to believe that I regret this more than—"

Ms. Corbell holds up a finger, effectively silencing Rachel in a second.

"In thirty years of teaching, I only need one glance to know the fate of my students' submissions. Less than five per year earns an A and about twenty percent gets a passing mark. Unfortunately, the rest gets thrown into a dumpster. And now yours…"

Rachel shuts her eyes, heart pounding like thunder in her chest.

"Yours warrants an extension. It's definitely not a load of bull crap, but I can't grade it properly unless it's complete, can I?"

"No, Ma'm."

"I'm giving you until Wednesday."

_**xxxxx**_

The door swings open, and Rachel doesn't bother to glance from her desk. She knew it was Santana the moment she had heard the harsh sounds of her footsteps.

"Hey, Berry, what you working on?" Santana says and leans in to take a peek.

"Research paper."

"Hallelujah!" Santana exclaims. "A short answer for a change! No, seriously, what's that?"

Rachel presses her lips together tightly.

"You still mad at me?"

Rachel ignores Santana and continuous to thoughtlessly scribble on her notebook. Frankly, she's no longer writing anything that made sense. She's simply determined to get her roommate to leave her alone.

But it's Santana, and Rachel should've seen that olive hand and prevented it from snatching her Moleskine underneath her arm.

"Give it back, Santana." Rachel mutters sternly, eyes straining on the cold, hard floor of their apartment.

"I said I was sorry. Geez, that was like, two nights ago. Get over it, Berry."

"And you think a cheap apology should set everything right after only 48 hours? Get over _yourself_." Rachel hisses.

"And how much time do you need?" Santana asks, marginally distracted by what's written on the leaves of Rachel's notebook. She proceeds to read the words she instantly finds: "The way you're singing in your sleep, the way you look before you leap, the strange illusions that you keep… You don't know, but I'm noticing. What the hell is this, Berry? You're into poetry?"

"They're lyrics. Well, technically, they aren't. It's a quote from a young adult novel which I'm sure you've probably never heard before."

"From 'Nick and Norah's Infinite Playlist', right? It's hilarious as hell."

That finally got Rachel to look at her— something she hasn't done since storming out of the living room a few minutes after Quinn had left the building. Santana liked being left alone, but Rachel's like a walking time bomb, threatening to explode anytime and she's just itching to diffuse the situation as soon as possible.

"You've read the book?" Rachel asks.

"Yeah." Santana answers dryly. "Movie sucked though. Hey, you're talking to me again."

Rachel huffs and looks away as if suddenly remembering she had already decided to pretend for the rest of her life that Santana Lopez does not exist. Except she's there—not by her physical embodiment but rather the streaks of steak sauce on the sink, and the dirty socks stuffed inside a worn pair of sketchers. God, Santana's just everywhere.

"Oh, come on, Rachel. It's not like I revealed to Q how hot you were for her."

"God, you're such a bitch, it's almost unbelievable."

"Sorry if being myself makes me one. At least I'm honest about who I am and I mean a hundred percent of what comes out of my mouth." Santana says, hardly unaffected.

With a loud thud, Rachel's forehead drops against the solid surface of her study desk. "What do you want from me?"

Santana plops beside her and tucks the notebook back under Rachel's arm.

"I want you to quit being a big baby about the whole Quinn thing. If she makes you feel like shit, then she doesn't fucking deserve you."

Rachel's laugh is hollow as turns her head to stare at Santana, half of her face remaining hidden from the Latina's view.

"Quinn's done nothing wrong to make me feel that."

"Not yet. But sooner or later, all this crazy passivity of hers will drive you nuts. I should know because I've seen it happen."

"Brittany mentioned you went to high school together… with Quinn too."

"We were… Even then, Quinn and I weren't each other's most favorite person."

"I thought so. Did you also know about Joe?"

"Just that he never shampooed his hair and I'm pretty sure he's a con artist. No, I'm kidding, drop the 'con', he's just fucking brilliant at drawing weird shits."

"Did Quinn like him a lot?"

"They were together for five years, what do you think?"

Rachel lowers her eyes. She doesn't even know why it frustrates her. It's clear they were together before but has become strangers now. "Right, of course she did…"

"Although, after what happened… I doubt if her fondness for that guy still outweighs her hatred for him."

She fails to imagine that Quinn can ever hate anyone. "You knew the story behind their break-up?"

"I heard it from one of Joe's friends, he…" Santana's expression grows serious. "You did not hear this from me. He knocked up some chick. Some teen Jesus."

Rachel's heart clenches. She no longer feels like being jealous of Joe anymore, for whatever wonderful past he might have shared with Quinn. There's only grief for how it must have felt for the girl who wouldn't tell Rachel anything about herself.

Is this the reason why she refuses to let anyone get too close? Because she still can't accept that Quinn's always been that way. Because she believes there's a secret way in and she's not going to give up until she discovers it.

"I promise I won't tell anyone."

"Great. Anyway, I had Chinese takeout and bought you this—" Santana says in a usual, annoyed tone.

"Thanks. Uh... How much do I owe you?"

Santana shifts awkwardly in her seat and says, "Nah, consider it my peace offering."

"What? Quit staring at me like a creeper."

Rachel beams. "You called me 'Rachel' a while ago and now you're feeding me."

"Big deal," But Santana's smiling too, and offering her stir-fry vegetables which she intentionally ordered for Rachel. "Later, Berry."

Rachel watches as Santana withdraws to her bedroom and locks the door behind her. She allows herself a few minutes to think of Quinn and what those stories she'd learned about the blonde means to her, before returning to her paper with a new title in mind.

_"A Meaningful Look at Quinn Fabray"_

She needs to know the meaning behind what makes her who she is, and why it draws Rachel in like moth to flame.


End file.
